


The Last Dragon

by Daydreams_Daisies



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Crossover, Dragon Riders, Dragons, F/M, House Targaryen, I mean i do, Past Jon Snow/Original Female Character, Past Relationship(s), Sad Visenya being Sad, Targaryen!OC, That's it, The Witcher Netflix Series Spoilers, Trauma, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), but not really, just dragons, my poor baby Jaskier is trying his hardest, my poor son, send help idk what I'm doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 84,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreams_Daisies/pseuds/Daydreams_Daisies
Summary: "With Fire and Blood."~In which Geralt finds himself bound to another exiled princess.(Cross posted on Wattpad, Quotev, and Tumblr)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 171
Kudos: 410





	1. Reborn from the Flames

Purple eyes dart around the landscape, settling on the rolling fields that the cliff overlooks. The lush emerald blades of grass languidly sway with the wind, unbothered by the brewing war around them. The sky is a beautiful hue of blue with clouds aimlessly dotting it. The sun is placed high in the sky, illuminating everything in its path. Rays of sunlight hit Visenya’s eyes, causing her eyes to glimmer like a well-polished amethyst gem. The light dances off her hair, creating a halo of sunlight. Her pale skin practically glows under the light, giving the appearance of something otherworldly. **  
**

If Jon was here, he might make a quiet comment about it, unheard by the prying eyes and ears that always seemed to surround her. His words would come out mumbled and stuttered, the awkwardness he carried when it came to conversations of romance making itself well known. Instead of berating him like Robb and Theon, their jabs lowering his already abysmal self-confidence, Visenya would simply smile at him. The twinkle in her soft eyes telling Jon she already knew what he was trying to say.

But he isn’t here.

No, Jon is miles away serving at the Night’s Watch while Visenya is in the Riverlands fighting a losing war. With Ned Stark executed for false charges of treason, the fragile string Visenya’s sanity rested on is quickly snapping. The rug got pulled out beneath her, shattering the reality she’d built around herself. Bran and Rickon were believed to be dead, killed by Theon no less. Sansa and Arya were captive in Kings Landing and Robb was making stupid decisions at every corner.

The camp is stifling. The uneasiness the remaining soldiers are feeling crawls under Visenya’s skin and fills her with a sense of dread. Morale swiftly dropped after the execution of Lord Karstark, and discouraged soldiers tend to not fight as fiercely for their king. So instead of allowing her brain to envision a million scenarios in which they lose and die horrible deaths, she left. Not far enough to miss anything of import, but with enough distance to just _breathe._ Something Visenya hasn’t been allowed in a long time.

So she stands on a cliff that overlooks green fields that go on for miles. The soft chirping of birds and rustling of long grass and trees allows her to forget the brewing storm. Despite being far warmer than the North, Visenya feels a sense of peace she hadn’t felt since before the King arrived. And if she closed her eyes for a moment as the breeze caresses her skin, she could almost convince herself she was home.

Home.

The word comes with a wave of emotions, mainly grief. Sometimes, if she tried hard enough, Visenya would manage to convince herself that the events of the past months weren’t real. That Ned Stark never died, nor Rickon and Bran. Arya and Sansa were still home, bickering as usual, and Robb and Visenya weren’t children masquerading as soldiers during a war. Subconsciously, her hand touches her cloak, gripping the navy blue fabric tightly in her hands. The fabric is soft to the touch, unlike the scratchy fabric of most traveling cloaks and vastly inappropriate during wartime, but Visenya couldn’t bear to part with it. A smart decision since Winterfell is now rubble in the dirt. It had been a gift for her five and ten name day from Sansa. She’d spent months on the cloak, meticulously embroidering a dire wolf on one side of the shoulder and a dragon on the other, both in vivid shades of red. Delicate flowers and vines weaving around the two animals, adding a feminine touch to it. Visenya’s eyes prick with wetness - the telltale sign of incoming tears - but she manages to suppress them.

_‘No, you are a dragon. Dragons do not cry.’_

The mantra repeats itself in her mind, the words a constant reminder that she needs to be made of stone.

“Visenya,” she hears a familiar voice call from behind. Slowly turning to face the person, she notices Robb briskly walking towards her.

 _‘Remember what you are,’_ she repeats in her head as Robb approaches.

“I’d almost thought you’d ran off,” he says upon closing the distance between them. He’s wearing his traveling clothes, opting to take a break from his heavy armor. A boyish smile rests on his face. The crow’s feet around his eyes that age him decades older than a boy of nine and ten disappear. His Tully blue eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief, reminiscent of the boy she’d know in Winterfell. His lips tug upwards and Visenya can nearly hear the reckless laughter that usually follows it. But this isn’t Winterfell, and they aren’t children anymore, still green and untainted by loss.

“And miss the wedding?” Visenya replies, her voice devoid of the playfulness that used to weave itself into her words. Her eyes pierce through Robb, the softness replaced with an austere glare. Since the North rebelled and began fighting a war, Visenya slowly felt herself slipping away. The carefree girl she was in Winterfell being replaced with a colder demeanor, becoming more and more like her namesake Queen Visenya Targaryen I.

The smile on Robb’s face quickly disappears once he registers the tone of her voice, a winter chill lacing each syllable. His eyes narrow slightly at Visenya. His hand that hangs on his side tightens in annoyance, an attempt to keep himself from doing or saying anything too rash.

“You don’t agree…” Robb begins but is swiftly cut off by Visenya.

“That’s an understatement,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her hands over her chest. Robb clenches his jaw as his lips are pulled into a tight line. “We should just cut our losses for now and march back to what’s left of Winterfell,” Visenya says, throwing a subtle jab at Robb for the state of their home. It’s unfair, and keep down Visenya knows this. Neither of them could have foreseen Theon’s betrayal, but that didn’t stop the poison from coating her words.

“We can’t afford that. With Walder Frey’s men we can take Casterly Rock,” Robb said, feeling his fuse shortening with each moment passing.

“What makes you think he’ll give us the men?” Visenya asks, gaze firmly fixed on Robb with her lips downturned into a scowl.

“He accepted my proposal. My uncle will marry his daughter and we will have his men. He gave us his word.” Robb said, allowing his annoyance to show through in his tone.

“Like when you gave your word you’d marry his daughter,” Visenya bites back, her tone as cold and unwavering as stone. Robb visibly recalls, but quickly gains his bearings.

“If there’s something else you want to say, you might as well get on with it! Tell me what you really think, Vis,” Robb bites back, growing tired of Visenya’s petulance. The usage of her nickname stings, pulling her back into a time before everything spiraled out of control. The times when she’d run around Winterfell without a worry, feeling safe and protected behind those tall walls.

She should’ve apologized and stopped the argument before it escalated. But pride got in the way as her temper continued to flare. All the feelings of anxiety and despair bubbling out at once as she lashed out a Robb once again.

“Fine. I think you’re being naive to think Walder Frey would keep his word. He’s a skeevy rat as it is, but you caused great offense when you turned around and married Talisa instead. We’re losing the war, Robb! Half of our army is gone, the Kingslayer is gone, and our allies are dwindling. We should cut our losses for the moment and return to Winterfell. We can rest and slowly build up an army to march on Kings Landing or wherever you want to go at a later time,” Visenya said, keeping her voice calm and collected.

“We need to attack…” Robb begins to say but is once again cut off.

“We need to be smart. Your father is dead, don’t let Sansa and Arya follow because you’re being impulsive,” she reasons, however the mention of Lord Stark hit a nerve and Visenya regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth.

Robb tenses and straightens his posture. His lips are pulled into a tight, thin line, nearly disappearing from his face. His blue eyes glower at Visenya with a frosty expression. He opens his mouth, and the words are quiet and unlike the loud tone, he used before. Instead, these words cut deeper than any wound she’d received before.

“Leave, now. Stay at camp if you will or go to the wedding, I care not,” Robb said, staring through Visenya instead of at her. She opens her mouth to mutter a weak apology but thinks better of it. Instead, Visenya does as he requested and leaves, making sure to give Robb a wide berth as she passes. Bitter regret lingers on her tongue, but she does nothing but continues looking forward, unable to find the words to convey her true worries and fears hidden behind her harsh words.

____________________

The chaos broke out all at once. One moment, Walder Frey was giving a speech, welcoming Robb as his honored guest, the next moment Talisa was on the ground, blood pouring from her stomach. Before Visenya could reach for her sword, soldiers with cross bolts that were perched on the balcony began rapidly firing. The bolts pelted the northern at the same time, the soldiers on the ground level killing anyone the bolts missed. It was a flurry of movement as they stabbed, beat, and choked anyone they got within range of. A few northerners attempt to fight, but most are so drunk that even if the slaughter hadn’t taken them by surprise they never stood a chance. Two bolts stuck into Lady Catelyn, the woman falling to the ground immediately. Dozens of arrows pelted Robb, moving through the leathers like butter before he finally fell to the ground.

Screams ring in the room, the sound echoing in Visenya’s head like a bad dream she can’t escape. She finds her feet firmly planted on the ground, petrified in her current state. The rest of the room treats her like a ghost, moving through her to get a hold of Stark bannermen. Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword, her thumb tracing the dragon design on it. Visenya’s eyes - wild and terrified - surveyed the slaughter, a silent scream stuck in her throat. Unsteady breathes puff out of her mouth like she forgot how to breathe properly. With each passing second, her mind slowly locks away inside her own mind, unwilling to face reality. It can’t be real, a voice whispers in her ears. None of this was supposed to happen. Robb was supposed to win and they would go home.

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Robb, still on the ground, but attempting to stand. His hands clutch onto the bolts still pierced into his skin. His mouth moved, but no words came out, or perhaps Visenya simply couldn’t hear him over her own heartbeat. Blue meets purple as he locks his gaze onto hers.

“Visenya!” Robb weakly shouts. Her eyes stare through him as the corners of her mouth begin to tremble. Suddenly, she’s rushing forward, moving to reach Robb. The action causes her to become visible to the room again. A Frey soldier meets her charge and attempts to stab her with a dagger. In a trance, she brings a hand up and slaps the dagger from his hand, taking out her own dagger and stabbing him in the abdomen; a clean kill. With the soldier dead, she continues running towards him, avoiding the trail of bodies - both alive and dead - that block the path. In a single fluid movement, she dives to her knees, grabbing onto Robb’s shaking hands.

“Get Greywind and get out!” he exclaims, his voice barely above a whisper. When they were kids of only eight and Visenya read too many fairytales and thought too highly of Robb, she’d often compare his eyes to stormy clouds. So vivid and piercing, eight-year-old Visenya was convinced they could be a weapon. Those same eyes she thought the world of glaze over, his breathing erratic and faint as he slowly fades from consciousness

Salty tears soak her face, her porcelain skin that glowed in the snow is now red and blotchy. She grips onto Robb with an iron tight grip, shaking her head in defiance. The blood from his wounds soaks his clothes and covers Visenya.

“I’m not leaving you!” She vehemently protests, her voice much louder than Robb’s strained rasp. The tears pouring from her eyes become more aggressive, washing away some of Robb’s blood that stains Visenya’s hands. “I told you this was a bad idea! Why didn’t you listen to me, you idiot!” Visenya yells at him, her voice cracking every other syllable.

“Go,” Robb said, attempting to weakly pull away. Visenya, no longer able to speak anymore, simply vigorously shakes her head in disagreement. Robb manages to release his hands from her grip, pathetically pushing her away. “Go,” he says, his voice stronger than before. “Go and save my sisters.”

She pathetically falls to the ground from the shove. Her eyes stare at Robb’s still form, unblinking. Thoughts race through her head, too fast to process. The noise around her dims until all she can hear is a ringing in her head. With the grace of a newborn pup, she stands from the ground. She spins around, looking anyway to escape the carnage in the room. Another soldier rushes towards her, weapon at the ready. A piercing scream leaves her mouth as she grabs his blade with her bare hands, the sharpness cutting her hands, but she doesn’t notice. With a strength she doesn’t normally possess, she jerks the blade to the left, throwing the man off his balance and to the ground. In a haze of bloodlust and rage, she climbs on top of the man, viciously stabbing him until he no longer moves. Shortly after she climbs off the dead body, now wielding her dagger and the dead soldier’s shortsword, another soldier rushes her. Visenya just steps to the side. She picks up a fork from the ground and throws it behind her. The prongs of the fork pierce into the man’s eyes as he screams out in pain.

Purple eyes dart around the chaotic room, looking for any signs of an exit. The main door is locked, keeping anyone from entering or leaving the hall. The number of Stark soldiers were rapidly dimming with each breath Visenya took. For each Frey soldier she took down, they killed 4 northern soldiers. Another soldier, smarter than the others, attempted to shoot at her from a distance. The bolt pierced her right shoulder, momentarily bringing her out of her daze. Without a moment of hesitation, she grabs a dagger from a nearby dead soldier and flings it at the soldier with the crossbow. It sticks in his left thigh, the man crumpling immediately.

“Fuck!” she shouts out, the stress of the situation finally dawning on her. However, by divine intervention or otherwise, she notices something out of the corner of her eye. A figure rushing through an opening of sorts. Due to the mayhem in the room, no one else seems to notice. Visenya isn’t sure if the opening will lead outside or further into the keep, but it’s her only option. With the speed and ferocity of a direwolf, she sprints towards her only chance of safety. She no longer focuses on killing the soldiers in her way but instead just dodging them. Each second is precious if she’s to survive this wedding, and it can’t be wasted killing an enemy soldier.

Vengeance later, safety now.

Stepping through the opening she notices it leads to the ramparts of the keep. Visenya bull rushes her way through it, sword and dagger clutched in their respective hands. The cool air that hits her face brings hope. However the sounds of more screams filling her ears, reminding her that this nightmare is far from over. Fire dances in her eyes as the Frey men burn the tents in their camp. The loud cheers of the soldiers pierce through the screams echoing in the camp. Visenya, from her spot in the ramparts, watches the figures dancing around the fires, momentarily pausing to beat down the odd soldier who’d survived. Her reverie is broken when the distant sound of a woman’s mangled scream from inside the hall reaches her.

Lady Catelyn.

This manages to pull Visenya from her mind, pushing her to act. Moving down the steps of the ramparts, she makes a mad dash to get away. The only way out is through the burning camp. Bracing herself for the potential fights, the grip on her dagger tightens. The first soldier notices her and she flings the dagger. He manages to dodge away from it in time, but Visenya simply slashes at him with her sword when he closes in. On her way past him, she picks up her dagger not stopping at all. The surroundings pass in a blur, nearly away from the keep. Then she hears it. The chanting of men.

“The King in the North!” a crowd of men shout in a mocking tone. Visenya stops mid-stride, turning around to see. For a single, stupid moment, she has a sliver of hope. Perhaps Robb managed to escape and his men are rallying to him. The sight before her is something far worse. A group of Frey men were gathered around a horse that has a figure resting on it. However, it’s head has been replaced with a direwolf; Greywind’s head to be specific.

Robb.

The jeering men parade his dead body around, laughing loudly as they do so. The tears that had momentarily dried on her face return full force; Visenya’s legs fail her as she falls to the ground. She stares at the scene before her unblinking. Her mind screams at her to run, to get up and leave. But she feels paralyzed. She knew Robb was dead the moment his body fell to the ground, there was no chance he would make it out. But she wasn’t prepared to see it; not like this. To watch his corpse, head cut off and replaced with Greywind’s severed head, be paraded around the destroyed camp like a prized pony.

A bloodcurdling scream escapes her mouth as an unfamiliar warmth begins to fill her body. This draws the attention of a few nearby soldiers. Yet even as they approach, malicious grins on their faces and weapons ready to rip into her, she can’t force herself to look away.

“Well if it isn’t the Dragon Princess. Thought you could get away did ya?” one of them teases, most of his teeth rotted off. The ones that manage to cling to his gums are coal black. Visenya crawls backward attempting to make a getaway. She flings her dagger at him, but he easily knocks it away with his own dagger. The heat inside her steadily rises is temperature as a sense of dread sets in.

“You like the fire?” another man jeers. A bolt whizzes past him, piercing Visenya in the leg. She cries out in pain, clutching the wound as she continues to back away - much slower this time.

The fire continues to blaze inside of her, the temperature so scorching she can barely stand it.

“I bet ya she does. Call her Lightbringer, they do.” a third replies. He rushes forward, grasping her injured leg in his dirty hands. She attempts to kick him, but with the adrenaline fading so does her strength. A sob escapes her mouth as the man pulls him towards her.

“Where’s your light now, Princess.” the first once mockingly asks. Another bolt whizzes towards them, landing in Visenya’s chest. The light around her slowly fades away, a dull pain pulsing in her as the men around her begin to gut her with their blades.

The fire inside her became unbearable. She lets out another ear-piercing scream as the intense heat escapes. She’s conscious long enough to watch as fire erupts from her, throwing everyone in the vicinity to the ground from the force of the blast as the fire charres their corpses.

The last thing she sees before falling into darkness is the fire illuminating her surroundings and Robb’s dead body.

_____________________________

Bird cawing in the distance echoes in Visenya’s mind, pulling her from her unconscious state. A heavy gust of wind blows through the wood causing nearby greenery to snack on Visenya's prone body. Water trickling in the distance mingles with the sound of the leaves being pushed by the wind. Visenya lifts her head from the ground and with hazy eyes, takes in her surroundings, nothing in the vicinity familiar. It was dark and cold and seemed like the complete opposite of the trees surrounding the Twins. These trees are spindly and reach towards the sky like a bony finger, unlike the thick lush trees that surround the Twins, giving life to a dull keep. These leaves are dull green, appearing to have the life sucked out of them. Most of the ground is dampened mud, coating her body in the slick substance. Moss is speckled throughout the ground, breaking up the mud. The smell in the air is pungent, a blend of decaying vegetation and stagnant water on a warm day.

She slowly pulls her body up, cracks resonating as she does. Fragments of the past day begin to piece together in Visenya’s mind. The argument with Robb, the wedding, and then...the slaughter. And just as soon as she stood up, Visenya's legs grow weak as she falls on her knees. On instinct, she throws her hands up attempting to lessen the fall. The mud squishes between the palms of her hands. One tear falls and then another and then another, and soon she’s in full-on hysterics. A wail escapes her lungs, the sight of Robb, dead on his horse burning itself into her brain. With her head hung a strangled cry escapes her lungs, sounding more like a dying cat than a human. The tears continue to pour down her face and she watches as they drip onto the floor.

 _‘No, it can’t - this can’t be real. They can’t be dead,’_ she thinks, hopelessness bubbling inside her that is quickly replaced with rage.

Pure unbridled rage.

Like a child throwing a tantrum, she pounds her fist into the ground, mud splashing on her face with each hit.

 _‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair. It’s not fair,’_ she repeats in her mind, timing each word with a punch.

With one last punch, Visenya pushes her body up. Her legs are shaky with each step she takes similar to a foil walking for the first time. One-step and then two, three, and then four before she finally collapses with a shout. She unstraps her sheathe and throws it at a nearby tree. Her sword clangs against the branch but otherwise makes no other noise. The hilt of the blade glints in the dim lighting, practically mocking Visenya.

 _‘I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve dragged Robb out kicking and screaming,’_ she thinks, angrily swiping at the tears on her face. ‘ _That stupid idiot!’_

With one last bout of anger, she swipes her fist out and hits the tree near here. The throbbing of her hand matches with her heartbeat, the pain-numbing the turmoil in her mind.

“I’m sorry Robb, I’m sorry my last conversation with you was so cruel. And I’m sorry I failed you Lady Catelyn,” she whispers, her words being carried away by a gust of wind. With a sigh, she picks at the fabric clinging to her legs. Inspecting one of the crossbow bolts that pierced her leg is surrounded by her dried blood, but the wound seems completely healed. Her brows furrow in confusion. That wound was deep and shouldn’t have healed so quickly. With a million questions on her mind, curiosity takes over any further brooding.

She crawls over to a puddle of murky water, intending to clean off the blood. Visenya pauses as she stares at her reflection. The figure is the same person. Silver hair - tangled and matted with blood and mud - and pale skin that currently looks sullen. However, her eyes are unfamiliar. Her once bright purple eyes that always gleamed with mischief were dull and...amber? She reaches a hand out towards the puddle, touching where it was reflecting her eyes. Removing her hand from the water, she simply watches the water ripple for a moment, enraptured by the sight.

‘ _I need to find a nearby town, maybe get some answers.’_ she thinks to herself.

On impulse, Visenya reaches both hands into the murky water, grabbing some of the mud that was on the bottom. Without a moment of hesitation, she begins coating her silver hair in the mud as a means of disguising the color. The Twins or not, silver hair would be a dead giveaway that she’s a Targaryen. She unclasps her cloak, holding it in front of her. She contemplated leaving it behind, not wanting anything that could identify her as Visenya Targaryen, but she didn’t have the heart. Not only was it a gift, but a gift from _Sansa_. And despite the hope pushed beneath her rage and grief, somehow she knew she was farther from Sansa than just a few territories. And she desperately needed something close to home, more now than ever. So instead, she simply flipped the cloak to the other side. Before her emotions can get the better of her, she swiftly stands to her feet, set on finding civilization.

She was wandering through the forest for an unknown amount of time before she heard something other than birds. The distant sound of people talking. Visenya picks up her speed, eager to be around other people. She breaks through the forest and sees a road. She rushes towards it and begins following it. After just a few moments of a slow jog, she finds herself at the entrance of a small town. People mill around, doing their daily tasks, and working. As she enters the town, people stop and stare at her. She forces herself to be unconcerned, placing on the cold facade she often put on in Winterfell. Whenever visiting Lords would come to Winterfell, they often didn’t make their strong opinions of her - more so her house - a secret. She notices there’s a large building that most of the people are entering, and the people leaving it are obviously drunk.

Visenya enters the rowdy tavern, narrowly avoiding the drunk patrons that nearly run into her. She deftly avoids the barmaid that is carrying more drinks than she can handle. The stench of state piss and vomit assaults her senses and her nose scrunches up in distaste. Taverns are all the same no matter where you are. She swiftly approaches the bar, gaining the attention of the older man that appears to be the owner and most of the patrons at the bar.

“Excuse me,” Visenya says. “Where am I?” she asks. The man sets down his glass, taking a moment to size her up.

“Blaviken.” he gruffly says, eyeing her suspiciously. Visenya’s eyes move to the barmaid who is currently fighting off some drunken patrons who were getting too handsy.

Blaviken. She’d never heard of this place before. This whole day has been bizarre so far, and Visenya doesn’t know if she can keep up.

“Get your hands off!” the barmaid shouts, smacking one of them with a serving tray. She lets out a huff of annoyance as she walks away from them. The lecherous men obnoxiously laugh as she leaves, unbothered by her reaction.

“Looking to hire another server?” Visenya asks, returning her gaze to the man. He looks her over once more, contemplating the offer.

“You any good?” he asks.

“I’m a fast learner.” she quickly replies and leans against the counter. “Tell you what, I’ll work for free for room and board.”

“Deal.” the man instantly replies, holding his dirty hand out for her to shake. She takes his hand in hers. “What’s your name girl?” he asks. Visenya’s mind blanks for a moment, not sure if she should tell him her real name.

“Jane.” she simply replies.


	2. A New Life

Slowly, Visenya’s eyes open, her vision hazy and muddled as she’s stuck in between distant dreams and the waking world. One blink, two blinks, three blinks. The room is much brighter than the darkness in sleep, her heavy eyes begging her to succumb to sleep once more, if only for five more minutes. Sunlight floods in through the window, cleansing away the darkness and the nightmares that come with it. The bed beneath her is lumpy and uncomfortable, leaving much to be desired in terms of comfort. The distant shouts of patrons in the tavern below only slightly muffled. Due to the thin walls, it sounds as if someone is screaming from behind Visenya’s door rather than from the floor below. A low grunt escapes Visenya’s mouth, her head pounding like the beat of a drum. Pain faintly shoots through her jaw as she slowly unclenches it. A loud pop echoes in the small room, Visenya’s arms stretching towards the ceiling. Lying in bed for a moment longer, she stares at the ceiling with a blank mind. **  
**

A year.

It’s been exactly a year since she showed up here. And despite that, she’s never grown used to it. A piece of Visenya still believes that this is all an elaborate dream. Perhaps she’ll wake up and be back in camp, fighting a losing war. Or maybe she’ll be in Winterfell, tucked away in her bed as she huddled under her furs to keep away the cold. All the Starks will be alive and well, and Visenya can laugh with them over breakfast as she chases away the bizarre and dark nightmare.

But the other half of her knows that idea to be false, nothing but a fantasy that’s just out of her grasp. This is real, and so are the actions that led to her showing up in Blaviken. She can still see it too, in the depths of her mind. The last image of Robb burned in her head as his body was paraded around the burning camp, his head cut off and replaced with Greywind’s. The unspoken apologies bubbling out of Visenya’s mouth, all the words she never got to say to him and never will.

No, this is all real. And the sooner Visenya accepts that the sooner she can move on with her life.

She just hasn’t learned how to.

The crash from down below and a slew of muffled curses bring Visenya out of her thoughts. Metaphorically and physically, Visenya shakes her head in an attempt to clear away the lingering melancholy. With a heavy sigh and the popping sound of bones cracking, Visenya pulls herself out of the bed, throwing aside the thin, itchy blanket. The cool wooden flooring below her feet is a stark contrast to her warm temperature, but a welcomed difference. With the grace of a person who drank too much, she stagers over to the small dresser shoved in the corner of her room. In the process, she tosses off her old nightgown to the ground. Trading the nightgown for a simple blue dress, Visenya haphazardly tosses it on, unbothered by the winkles. It’s one of the few dresses she owns. She managed to sew it - after many pricked fingers and a storm of curse words. She received the fabric from the local tailor. One of the local men was harassing the tailor and Visenya offered to get him off her hands in exchange for some fabric. Needless to say, the man - who turned out to be usual at the tavern - had a beautiful black eye for a solid week. It’s a win-win for Visenya; she gets free fabric and the men think twice about harassing her.

If they’re smart, that is.

She still owns all the things she brought with her from Westeros. Her clothes and sword were cleaned, various holes patched until they appeared brand new and her sword shined so methodically it looks better than it had the day she got it. Her clothes lie in a chest, carefully folded and tucked under her small bed. The sword is in its sheath and rests beside the chest waiting to be used once more. Visenya had been unable to get rid of the items but could bear to look at them. So they’re neatly tucked away, collecting dust as Visenya pretends they don’t exist.

Some nights, when riddled with melancholy and sorrow she’ll pull out the chest and unsheath her blade. The fine dress, embroidered with small flowers and details of silk alongside the deep blue cloak embroidered with a fierce dragon and proud direwolf gets drenched in salty tears. Sobs tear through the silence of the room, echoing in Visenya’s mind until it’s the only thing she can focus on, blocking out the sounds of screams from that night. She’d trace her sword, feeling the dragon on the hilt beneath her fingertips. It was both a source of pain and strength for her. It reminds her of what she lost in Westeros but it also reminded her of who she is - what she is. A dragon and a dragon is unbothered by the sheep.

With a halfhearted ruffle of her hair tangled hair, the previously silver locks are now dyed a mud brown. In fear of sounding vain, she hates the color. The golden - silver locks were always her pride and joy. It was soft as silk and shined like fine jewels, reflecting beautifully in the sun as it glittered like gold. The light bouncing off the alabaster snow made her glow. Sansa used to adore braiding her hair, styling it in southern braids. Now it was dry, tangled, and dull; never styled in the intricate braids she used to wear. 

But the dye is a necessary evil. Despite not being in Westeros - or anywhere near it - silver hair isn’t a natural color for women her age. And the people in Blaviken don’t take kindly to anything different. So, in an attempt to not garner any attention to herself, silver became brown. And with each application of the dye, Visenya feels a piece of her old self being chipped away, whittling away until there isn’t much left.

Another crash

She turns around, another sigh escaping her mouth. She moves towards the door, swinging it open as she moves down the hall. It is bare and empty, with no patrons stumbling out of their room blindly. Her room is the closest to the stairs, often hindering Visenya from getting a restful sleep if the tavern below is in full swing. The floorboard creak beneath the weight of her, the sounds lining up with each inhale and exhale she takes.

Every day is a challenge to keep her head down and mouth shut. The patrons are rowdy and crude, many of them before even having a drop of ale in their systems. Insults would hang at the tip of her tongue, thrashing at the patrons like an angry serpent, ready to land a deadly strike. Her palms covered in crescent-shaped scars from clenching her fists for so long. And sometimes she’d let go and allow her temper to flare and get the best of her. But the risk is never worth the reward, and Aldred has proven to not be a kind boss.

So with a deep breath, Visenya steps down the last set of stairs and sets off towards the bar. The scent of stale alcohol and farm animals mingling with the aroma of food hits Visenya’s senses, causing her nose to wrinkle in disgust.

“There you are! Took you long enough to get down here.” Aldred, the innkeeper loudly exclaims upon seeing Visenya. She mutters a quiet sorry as he shoves a tray of drinks in her hands. “Quit your apologizing girl. Just take these drinks to that table.” He motions over to a rowdy group of men, all donning dyed red leathers. A group of bandits - or mercenaries, Visenya doesn’t care to find out. They came in last night with a woman named Renfri, and haven’t shut up since. She manages to balance the tray in her hands and takes them over to the table, dropping it on their table with a thud.

“Enjoy.” she sarcastically mutters, already moving away before any of them have a chance to speak. A scowl automatically places itself on her face as she begins another day of work.

“Do you ever smile Jane?” Isadora, another one of the serving girls says as she passes by to bring another table their drinks. She’s kind enough but the biggest gossip in this backwater town. You can count on anything you say to her being passed around the small town within the next hour. 

“Only when bathing in the blood of my enemies,” she mutters to herself, quiet enough that no one should hear. The small chuckle that leaves a woman Visenya was passing, Renfri, told her she was unsuccessful. Visenya pauses to give the woman a quick glance before moving back to the bar, where Aldred already had another round of ale ready for a different table. She picks up the serving tray, careful to not spill the drinks ontop.

“You always so grim?” Renfri asks Visenya as she walks past her to serve a table. This time Visenya doesn’t pause but does answer the woman.

“Only when my heartbeats.” she nonchalantly says in a deadpan tone. She hears Renfri stifling another laugh, but if she said anything else, Visenya didn’t hear.

“Here ya go boys,” she mutters, once again dropping the drinks carelessly on the table. Some of it splashes out of the cups and onto the table. A few of the men scowl at her as they grab their respective drinks.

“You always do have the most lovely smile Jane.” one of the men pipes up. Jerald, he’s here far too often and spends too much coin. It doesn’t help that he also smells like he’s never been introduced to bathing. Then again, that is most of the people in this town, Visenya has unfortunately discovered. Jerald, feeling brave from the copious ale he’s already consumed, reaches a hand out to grab Visenya. The anger bubbling under the surface of Visenya snaps, the fire inside her flaring to life. With the speed and ferocity of a roaring fire, she grips his hand that rests on her arm.

Without a moment of hesitation, she bends his wrist back until the back of his hand hits the table surface. He lets out a strangled cry of pain as she holds his hand in an uncomfortable position. The men around them let out various cries of surprise but do nothing else. The previously jovial atmosphere in the tavern dissipates, silence smothering the room as everyone stares at their table. She tightens her grip on his wrist, bending down until her face is a few centimeters away from his. Like a snarling wolf, she bares her teeth at him.

“Touch me again, and I’ll show you something far nicer,” Visenya said, a threat thinly veiled in her words. His eyes stare at her, closely resembling a spooked deer, fear speckled in his gaze. She holds him there a moment longer before releasing his arm. Without another word she swiftly moves back to the bar. Multiple pairs of eyes continue to follow Visenya as the atmosphere slowly returns, the chatter in the room picking up. And by the time she reaches the bar, the only two pairs of eyes on her, Aldred and Renfri. Aldred’s beady eyes follow her, a scowl resting on his face while Renfri watches her with a critical eye mingled with a look of approval.

“They always like that?” Renfri asks her, casually leaning again the bar counter, nonchalantly tossing pieces of her breakfast in her mouth. She lazily watches Visenya circle around the bar until she stands across from Renfri. Visenya’s gaze moves from the counter to meet Renfri’s. They quietly watch each other, Renfri waiting for an answer, and Visenya contemplating giving an answer. 

“All men are the same when they’ve got ale in them.” Visenya smoothly replies, breaking the silence and ending their stare-off. Grabbing a cup from the counter she pours another cup of ale, sliding it over to Renfri. The woman merely raises an eyebrow at Visenya before tipping the cup up towards her mouth. Visenya watches as she finishes the ale so fast she could’ve given Robert Baratheon a run for his money. She slams the cup down, wiping away any residual ale on her face. Visenya says nothing, opting to begin eating an assortment of meats, cheese, and bread.

“Renfri.” she simply says, holding a hand out to Visenya.

“I know,” Visenya says, placing her hand in Renfri’s. “Jane.”

“I know.” Renfri mimics, giving her a teasing smirk. Visenya returns the gesture. She takes a moment to get a good look at Renfri. Shoulder length brown hair that’s almost as messy and unkempt as Visenya’s; a red blouse - matching the red leathers of her band of men; and a rather large brooch of a sword going through a circle with glittering gems on it.

“Nice broach.” Visenya simply says, removing her hand from Renfri’s grip.

“I think so too, it’s why I have it.” she smugly says. Visenya simply snorts with a snarky retort on the tip of her tongue, when they’re interrupted.

“You stupid girl, the fuck you think you’re doing? Get back to work!” Aldred bellows as he moves towards the bar, gathering the attention of any nearby patrons. “I swear you’re more trouble than you’re worth, Jerald and the boys said you attacked him again,” he sneers, resembling a boar preparing to attack. Visenya subtly rolls her eyes, eliciting a snarky smirk from Renfri. Aldred always did have a way with words.

She grabs two plates of food, probably prepared by Isadora. Without glancing in his direction she glides past Aldred, taking them to their respective tables. She drops the plates on the table. Without waiting for the man or woman she served to speak to, Visenya turns back to the bar. Before she can get back to the bar, the tavern door swings open. A large figure donning a cloak enters the tavern with heavy footsteps, his hood concealing most of his face. But Visenya manages to get a decent look at him before he moves from view. Sculpted face, piercing amber eyes, and snow-white hair. He quickly approaches the counter, where Isadora currently is. Visenya’s too far to hear what’s being said, but the pair are quickly interrupted when Aldred swiftly approaches them, his face nearly red with anger. Isadora immediately moves away from the two. At this point, everyone in the tavern has gone dead silent. Visenya moves closer in an attempt to better hear the conversation. One of the men with Renfri had already stood up, venomously shouting something at the stranger.

“Go; on your own or at the end of a rope. Your choice.” Aldred spits at the man, his arms crossed over his chest. He’s trying to appear intimidating, but the man before him is easily twice his side. Plus, Visenya doubts Aldred could overpower a half-dead chicken.

“Not a hard choice.” the man replies in a smooth voice. He turns to face the man that had spoken to him earlier. Visenya continues to move closer until she’s nearly behind the counter.

“Fuck that, kill him with your bare hands if ya have to,” Aldred says. After he says this, the rest of the men in red leather stand up, getting into a defensive stance. Visenya silently rolls her eyes at the situation. As far as she’s concerned the man hasn’t done anything wrong, and now they’re threatening to kill him. She carelessly glides behind the counter, trying to distract herself from the current tension.

“Probably why business isn’t so great,” Visenya mutters to herself, starting to pour another cup of ale, ready for this mess to be done with. She can feel the flames slowly building as her temper does - the same way it did the night she died. If they didn’t stop this nonsense, Visenya imagined she would be the one doing the killing and not on her own volition. Though the only thing she’d be mourning here is free food and board.

“Come on Witcher, you’re not scared of us are ya?” he asks in a mocking tone. A few of his men begin to step up beside him. The stranger just continues to stare at them. “Show us what ya got.” he goads, obviously looking for a fight.

“Can you not leave it alone for a moment?” Renfri interrupts, dramatically turning to face the group, throwing her food back onto her plate.

“Witchers can’t be trusted,” Aldred says through his gritted teeth.

“I’m not speaking to you,” Renfri says, not bothering to look at Aldred. “I apologize for my man’s interference in your day.” Renfri continues, nodding at the stranger whose back was turned to her. “Hopefully he can improve his behavior by tomorrow’s market.” Renfri finishes, her tone implying the words had a deeper meaning. The stranger and the man in red leather continue staring tensely at each other before he speaks up.

“Sorry Renfri.” he simply says, still staring at the stranger before swiftly turning back to his table.

“Beer for my friend and one for me,” Renfri calls out to Aldred, turning back to the counter to finish her food. Aldred simply huffs and crosses his arms, staring down the stranger - resembling a petulant child. “I am speaking to you now, good sir!” Renfri calls out to Aldred louder, slightly leaning against the counter. The stranger, who now faces the counter pulls down his hood, revealing tangled white hair that goes below his shoulders. His current position also lets her see his black studded leather armor and a wolf pendant that hangs from his neck. Visenya, who’d been at the counter pouring drinks into cups, without looking to Aldred for confirmation, simply slides two drinks their way. One for Renfri and one for the stranger. Aldred glares daggers at Visenya, but she can’t pretend to be bothered. With the tension in the room slowly easing, so is the fire that was bubbling inside of her. Something Visenya is grateful for. Renfri simply gives Visenya a nod and turns to the stranger. He also nods his head in acknowledgment of her but does nothing further.

She moves to grab a cup of ale that Aldred had loudly slammed on the counter, his intention to get Visenya’s attention. As she grabs the mug he harshly glares at her but says nothing as she moves past him. The volume in the room has returned, but the tension is still there. Everyone seems to be uncomfortable with the presence of the stranger.

“Jane! Another round if you will!” Renfri calls to her as Visenya was making her way back to the counter. As she passes Aldred who was still standing in the same position as earlier, she gives him a sickly sweet smile. The smile that was only reserved for arrogant Lords that visited Winterfell and Robert Baratheon, when he came to ask Lord Stark to be his Hand. On her way past him, she grabs a pitcher of ale. As she moves around the counter, she replaces Renfri’s cup with the pitcher.

“We both know you’re going to drink it all. Might as well cut the middle man.” Visenya teasingly tells Renfri. Renfri gives Visenya a sly smile, but it doesn’t match the broody expression on her face. She picks up the jug and moves towards the stranger.

“More and more monsters wherever I go,” she says, her tone sounding defeated, before leaving the tavern. Visenya watches her for a moment before turning her gaze to the stranger, who she now stood before. Even sitting down he was still taller than her. His gaze moved from Renfri to Visenya. His expression is unreadable, not sure what to expect from her.

“Jane.” she simply says. The stranger raises a dark eyebrow at her. Strange, it doesn’t match his head. “That’s my name.” she finishes. He gives her a gruff ‘Hmm’ before taking another drink of his ale. “This is normally the part where you tell the other person your name.” Visenya quips.

“Geralt of Rivia,” he answers after finishing his drink. Visenya nods in satisfaction.

“You made quite a stir coming in here,” Visenya says, already pouring him another drink.

“It happens,” he replies shortly.

“It must be the hair.” Visenya sarcastically quips. Geralt quietly chuckles.

“Must be,” he replies, his voice gravelly and rough. She opens her mouth to respond with something witty when they’re interrupted.

“How much coin for you kikimora then.” Marilka, the alderman’s daughter, interrupts, leaning against the counter beside Geralt.

  
  



	3. Two Sides of the Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say...I regret nothing. Enjoy!

The threads of dawn slowly dissipate as time passes. Seconds tick by, transitioning into minutes and then hours before nearly the whole day has passed. Now instead of soft morning light flooding through the windows, the sky is nearly pitch black, except for the stars faintly twinkling and the omnipresent moon. Candles flickering wildly throughout the room cast a warm glow on the greater part of the room but cast even darker shadows in the corners. The tavern is busier than before, workers fiending for a drink and a warm room to relax in after a long workday. Nearly all the tables are filled with chattering people, guzzling their drinks as if it’ll disappear if they wait a moment longer. Visenya stands at the bar pouring out cups of ale or portions of stew into bowls, her movements nearly robotic. Then she grabs a tray, precariously stacking everything in order to avoid any accidents and begins moving through the tavern. She glides and spins, narrowly managing to avoid any accidents as she dances through the room. **  
**

Visenya’s eyes scan each table, memorizing the faces of every person; the shape and color of their eyes, the way their mouths move when they speak, and the presence they hold. Her eyes flit from brown to black to blonde and then back to brown, hoping to catch a glimpse of white hair. But to no avail, no matter how many times she looks, even in the deepest corners, she’s met with the sting of disappointment. It seems nearly everyone in the town is in the tavern tonight. But her mind is focused on finding the one person that doesn’t appear to be here and hasn’t been seen since the morning.

But that doesn’t mean the night will be boring. Perched on a barstool, nursing a cup in the exact same spot as this morning is Renfri. Her shoulder-length hair just as tousled and messy as before, if not more so. Her leather armor remains pristine while her red undershirt is wrinkled and unkempt, just like before. The broach clipped onto her shirt glitters in the candlelight, reflecting like a rainbow in Visenya’s eyes. Absentmindedly, Visenya moves towards her, like a moth enthralled by light, all the grace previously present in her movements gone. She bumps into a few people, muddled shouts of anger and disbelief following her like a shadow, but Visenya isn’t focused on them. And as she draws closer, the scent of herbs and leather oil overcomes her senses. With each step, the scent grows stronger as Visenya’s inhibitions grow weaker. She feels enthralled by the scent, growing more addicted with each second ticking by.

Hearing her approach, Renfri turns her head, her gaze meeting Visenya’s. Her dark brown eyes glimmer like gold, the warm firelight illuminating them in a way the sun never could. They’re wide and bright and oh so welcoming, inviting Visenya to stare at them for days on end. Dirt smudges her face, looking more like war paint than the outcome of traveling too long with too little baths. The vacant expression on her face disappears, replaced with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes and a slight smirk resting on her lips.

And for the first time in over a year, Visenya feels her heart stuttering, threatening to give out the longer Renfri watches her. The tray resting atop her hands begins to slightly shake, ever so slightly Visenya could pass it off as due to a breeze. But the growing smirk on Renfri’s face tells Visenya the excuse would fall flat. And Visenya can’t help but mirror her expression, her heartbeat starting to pick up before it resembles a bird frantically flapping its wings. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me,” Visenya said, moving around the bar counter. Sometime along the way she drops the tray on the counter, the material clattering against the wooden counter. Her hands trail across the counter with each step taken, feeling the roughness and mentally counting each grain on it. Along the way, she grabs a tankard filling it with one of the tavern’s smoother ales. Visenya’s eyes move from Renfri’s, scanning the room like she had approximately five minutes ago, but this time for a different reason. Instead of white hair, gold eyes, and a brooding presence, she’s looking for a short and stout man with a balding head and stringy facial hair. Content that Aldred is currently elsewhere, Visenya moves her attention to Renfri.

“And if I was?” Renfri replies, leaning ever so slightly towards Visenya, just enough that a subtle sweet scent invades Visenya’s nostrils. It’s delicate and delightful, similar to the blue winter roses in Winterfell. A chuckle escapes Visenya’s mouth as she stops, now directly across Renfri. Using her elbows to brace herself, she lowers herself to lean on the bar, bringing Visenya and Renfri to eye level.

“I’d tell you to stop being a coward, and approach me,” Visenya said, taking a small sip of her drink, savoring the way the smooth liquid glides down her throat.

“I’d also say that’s no easy task. You’re easily one of the most intimidating women I’ve met. In fact, I might even go as far as to say you’re the most intimidating woman,” Renfri said, taking a large drink from her tankard. A smirk pulls at the corner of Visenya’s lips, drinking in the teasing words that Renfri’s saying.

“And why is that, might I inquire?” Visenya moves forward a hair, leaving plenty of distance between the two of them to appear proper - somewhat. Proper enough to not draw any attention of the drunken patrons at least.

“Well, there’s the strong possibility you might break my arm if I say something you don’t like,” Renfri answers. A single ashen eyebrow raises at the answer, Visenya biting her lips to keep from laughing.

“Let’s say I do break your arm, what then?”

“Well, then I guess I’ve got a broken arm.” Renfri leans closer.

“And still hanging around like my shadow, I hope.” Visenya draws closer as well.

“I reckon it’d take more than that to get rid of me,” Renfri said. Her lips curl into a teasing smile. Despite how cracked and dry they are, her lips are full and pink. Something in the back of Visenya’s mind demands that she press her own lips against them to learn what they taste like. And she nearly gives in to the impulse, desperate to memorize the feeling of her lips and to know for herself if they’re as dry as they seem. But Visenya manages enough restraint to not.

Instead, she picks up her tankard and moves her glass towards Renfri’s, keeping their gazes locked together. She taps it with enough force for the clunk of wood hitting wood resonates around them, but careful to not spill anything.

“I’ll drink to that,” Visenya said, her teasing smile evolving into a genuine one. It’s small, barely causing wrinkles to form around her eyes. But it’s more than anyone’s gotten out of her in the past year. And somehow Renfri senses that. Maybe not fully grasping how profound the small moment was, or maybe she did but in a different way as Renfri mirrors the smile. Visenya’s heartbeat continues to beat erratically. And at that moment, she decides Renfri is easily the most beautiful person Visenya ever came across. Despite the heavy bags under her eyes due to a lack of sleep and the dryness clinging to her skin from too much drinking. And she can’t help but to mentally paint a picture of this moment.

The moment draws on, feeling like hours have been lost in their silent stares and unspoken words. Their gazes only break every once in a while by Visenya pouring the two of them another drink or helping another patron. But they always snap back to each other. Until Renfri breaks their comfortable silence.

“You ever thought about leaving this shit hole?” Renfri asks, pulling away until she can no longer feel Visenya’s breath fanning across her face.

“And leave behind all these fantastic people? How could I ever? Best year of my life ever.” Visenya said, rolling her eyes.

“So why not leave?” Renfri asks with an intensity in her eyes Visenya has yet to see. Her eyes are devoid of the mirth that lingered in them only a moment prior, her lips are pulled into a thin line.

Why not just leave? The question echoes in her mind, repeating itself over and over again. It’s such a simple question, but Visenya finds herself tongue-tied none-the-less. The answer should be easy, something she’d know immediately. But she doesn’t. Because Visenya doesn’t even know why she’s stayed here for so long. She’d been working for room and board, so saving coin isn’t correct. And she clearly hasn’t enjoyed Blaviken or its citizens, so that answer is out the window. 

“I guess I just didn’t know where else to go,” Visenya said, slowly mulling over each word as they left her mouth. She intertwines her fingers as they fumble together like a tangled string. The sarcastic comments and teasing smirks ripped away leaving her stripped and bare to Renfri’s sharp gaze. With nothing left to hide behind, Visenya is forced to face her emotions, the one thing she’d been avoiding.

Fear.

The fear of leaving this town and discovering she’ll never be able to get home. The fear of wandering from town to town her whole life only to get nowhere. At least here, trapped in this strange town with its strange people she can pretend there is still hope. It’s cowardly and stupid, and if this were someone else, Visenya would scoff in their face.

“Well, then I’ve got the offer of a lifetime, my dear Jane,” Renfri said, breaking Visenya from her internal uneasiness. The confidence in her voice is a stark contrast to the pathetic one Visenya used. It’s invigorating and completely different from the intensity Renfri previously held. Visenya merely hums in reply, allowing Renfri to continue.

“Come with my men and me when we leave. I could use the company of another woman, especially one that punches as hard as you.” Renfri boldly offers, referring to earlier in the day when Visenya punched a patron who thought he’d take her home. Evidently, he thought wrong.

It sounds so outrageous and insane. They’d only really met today and already Renfri was offering her a spot on the road with her crew. They’d hardly done anything more than exchange sarcastic quips and prolonged eye contact. So Visenya did the only thing she could do. She laughed, loudly.

“You’re joking!” she exclaims in between laughs. “You have to be. We just met,”

“I’m afraid not. My offer is genuine,” Renfri replies, seemingly unphased by Visenya’s reaction. Instead, she drinks in the unbridled laughter leaving Visenya mouth, tracing the way her eyes turn into small crescent moons with her golden eyes acting as stars lighting up the night sky. 

“And if I turn out to be crazy? What I strip you of everything you have and leave you with nothing but a wounded ego?” Visenya presses, managing to gather her composure enough to continue a conversation.

“Well, then I’d hope you’d at least give me a good night before leaving.” 

“You’re mad, you are absolutely mad,” Visenya exclaims, gathering the attention of the other patrons sitting at the bar.

“That may be so, but I’d rather never have to come here again. But I also don’t want you to slip away. So it seems you coming with me is the only viable option,” Renfri said.

“And if I refuse?” Visenya teases.

“Then I’ll drag you with me kicking and screaming,” Renfri said, in a matter of fact tone. A large smile lights up Visenya’s face, the sight as blinding as staring at the sun for too long. 

“Alright, but if we’re going to do this, I’ve got a few questions for you. Answer them, then me and my fists of fury are all yours,” Visenya said, leaning against the countertop once more.

“Ask away, if it is in my power to answer I will.” Visenya grabs the nearby pitcher, refilling Renfri’s drink.

“First question, how much free alcohol do I get?” Visenya quips, slyly smirking at the woman. She then takes a sip from her cup as if to punctuate her question.

“As much as you want!” Renfri exclaims, getting a stifled laugh from Visenya.

“Question two, why are you in Blaviken? Besides, of course, to whisk away angry maidens on adventures,” Visenya asks, her voice lacking the light tone it held in her previous question. And the mood reflected that. The easy-going atmosphere that surrounded them, blocking out the noise from the other people in the room, shifted into something tenser. Renfri’s smile dropped, forming a grimace.

“I can’t be here for the market in two days?” Renfri feigns offense but her tone is tight and strained.

“You could, but I don’t think that’s the only reason,” Visenya said, drinking from her tankard. Her eyes burn into Renfri, attempting to perceive any lies that might pour from Renfri’s mouth. She opens her mouth, then abruptly closes it. Instead, she throws her head back as she brings the cup to her mouth, drinking its contents, before slamming the tankard on the bar.

“I want vengeance. Someone here stole something for me and I need to repay them,” she said, a ruthless edge in her voice. A tone Visenya knows all too well. After the death of Ned Stark, it was the only way Visenya ever heard Robb speak. Lady Catelyn would pick up the tone as well, blending rage with sorrow into the perfect storm as she mourned the lives of her children and husband. But it is also a tone Visenya often took up. From the moment she could know anything she had a chip on her shoulder because of the fate of her house. The ghost of her mother followed her everywhere she went. A constant reminder of the horrible fate she suffered at the hands of The Mountain, acting as fuel to the fire inside Visenya. Robb and Theon would tease her about how angry she was as a child, every word spoken like it was a threat, even if one wasn’t there.

Maybe that shared simmering rage is what brought them together. Two silly girls too angry for their own good.

“Who?” Visenya said, pushing for more information.

“Stregobor, the wizard hiding in his tower. He ruined my life and I intend to make him pay.” She says lowly, not allowing any nosy patrons to listen in on their conversation. “I used to be a princess, did ya know that. Until Stregobor sent his thug in the woods after me. He didn’t kill me like he was told to. Instead, he raped and then robbed me, intending to leave me there to die, so I ran my mother’s brooch through his eye.” Renfri said, looking Visenya directly in the eye.

She waits for the woman to react, maybe shower her with sympathy or call her a monster. Maybe she’d run out of the tavern and never look Renfri in the eye again. Or maybe just run her through with a kitchen knife and collect payment from Stregobor. But that never happens. Visenya just nods her head.

“Okay.” she simply says.

“Okay?”

“I’ll go with you. After you get your vengeance I’ll be ready with my pack and traveling cloak.” Visenya says, downing the rest of her ale. A small smile appears on Renfri’s face, starting to distort their tense bubble.

“Okay.” She stands to leave, draining the rest of her ale as well. However, before she can walk away, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp Renfri’s wrist. She faces her with a puzzled look.

“I know how you feel. I wasn’t able to get my vengeance, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”

With a single nod in response and an unreadable expression, Renfri leaves the tavern.

__________________

“Stupid dress.” Visenya angrily mutters, throwing the rumpled dress onto the ground then kicking it in a corner. Visenya’s evening had been at an all-time high after Renfri left. A new pep in her step that was never there before as she finished her shift. She managed to avoid any confrontation, sidestepping drunks - both angry and touchy-feely. A smile was plastered onto her face and despite her best efforts it wouldn’t leave. She was leaving in two days’ time to set off on a new adventure and no one would ruin that. Until some sloppy drunk spilled his entire cup of ale on her when he ran into her.

This caused the tray of drinks she was holding to also fall on her. Like an idiot, Visenya sat on the ground covered in ale and food alike, as the patrons watched on, not lifting a finger to help. Simmering in her rage and humiliation, Visenya pushed herself off the ground. With her shoulder, she smacked the drunk that ran into her, who at the time was moaning about his spilled ale. He fell to the ground behind her with a thud, but Visenya didn’t bother to check. Her anger was placated by the promise of getting into dry clothes and a few hours away from the tavern before having to start the cycle all over again the next day. Her shift didn’t end until another few hours, but Visenya finds herself unable to care about the consequences. What could he do, kick her out? She’s already leaving.

“Stupid drunks.” She aggressively rips the tie that was holding her hair in place, throwing it with her dress.

“Stupid town.” She throws her shoes off and launches them at the wooden door. Each boot hits the wood with a resounding thud, not that it would be heard over the loud patrons below.

“And stupid world,” Visenya mutters, not sounding as angry as before. It only took three steps for Visenya to reach her bed from the door. Only left in her undergarments, Visenya collapsed onto the bed. It creaked under the unexpected weight and the straw under the sheets is lumpy and harsh. But it was better than being on her feet.

“I’d hate to be the source of your ire.” A smug voice breaks through the silence. Visenya jumps from the bed, hand reaching for the sword she keeps under it. Pulling the hilt out of the sheath, she grips it so tightly, her hand turns white. Her heart hammers a million miles an hour, adrenaline being to pump through her veins. She whirls towards the source of the voice, quickly deflating when she realized it was just Renfri.

“Renfri! What in Seven Hells are you doing here?” Visenya exclaims, dropping her sword on the ground. It clatters as it hits the floor, the metal glinting in the dim light. Her tight posture loosens as a breath of relief leaves her mouth.

“Enjoying a good show it would seem.” She says, nonchalantly sitting down in a chair that’s tucked in the corner of the room. And suddenly, after the fear of someone breaking into her room, Visenya becomes very aware that she is only in her underclothes. In an attempt to maintain nonchalance, she walks over to the chest that contains her clothing, reminding herself to take steady and slow breaths. The chest, that’s only two steps away from the bed, feels like it takes hours to reach. Each step in line with her heartbeat and slightly shaky breaths.

It’s just the aftermath of being scared, nothing more. She tells herself but finds herself unable to be placated by the words. The familiar feeling of butterflies in her stomach returns. Her heart begins to speed up again, beating wildly in her chest.

Upon reaching the chest, she leans down, fully aware of Renfri’s gaze that hasn’t left Visenya’s form. Opening it, she grabs the first piece of fabric she sees, not caring how it looks or what it is. She throws on what turns out to be another dress before turning back to Renfri.

“Is that how you welcome all your guests?” Renfri continues after Visenya is dressed. Feeling more comfortable in real clothes, Visenya moves over the bed. She sits at the end to face Renfri. But only too late she realizes her knees are almost touching Renfri’s.

It’s a small room.

“Only the ones I really like,” Visenya answers, maintaining her cool, unwilling to show how unnerved Visenya is from her unannounced visit.

“Now I’m truly flattered,” Renfri smirks at her. Outwardly, nothing about Renfri or her demeanor seemed different. But something about the air around her seemed more predatory. Like a wolf about to eat its next meal.

“But really, why are you here? I already agreed to come with you?” Visenya said. Renfri begins to play with a small pendant in her hand, fingers rolling across its smooth surface.

“You said you knew how I felt? What did you mean?” Renfri asks, her doe-like brown eyes meeting Visenya’s own amber eyes.

At that moment, Visenya realized how extremely her appearance and demeanor differed. On the outside, Renfri had the features of a soft noblewoman - if not for the tangled hair and dirt on her face - but in reality, Renfri seemed deadly and ruthless. Another similarity it seems. Two women destined for the life of a pampered and protected princess, yet fate decided to be cruel. And for different reasons, they were forced to change from silk to steel, hardening their exteriors until they’re unable to be broken. A sigh leaves Visenya, thinking of ways to answer the simple yet incredibly complicated question.

“I used to be a princess too. It was somewhere far away from here, somewhere you’d never even heard of. There was a rebellion and my family lost. My father died on the battlefield; my grandfather - while a horrible man - was stabbed in the back by someone sworn to protect him; and my mother and siblings were slaughtered. I was only spared because a lord didn’t want to see another child murdered. He raised me as his ward and that was that.” Visenya said the words are easier than expected.

A piece of her expects the words to feel like a thousand cuts as they rolled off her tongue. The bitter words should feel like poison going down her throat, slowly killing her as it goes. But it doesn’t feel like that. Instead, she felt nothing, a cold numbness overtaking her body. Maybe the absence of pain is worse than the pain itself because it shakes the foundation she built her life around. All her life Visenya held onto ghosts, holding tightly onto her anger because it’s the only thing she ever held control over. No matter how grateful she was for Lord Stark saving her, no matter how happy and free she felt with Robb, Jon, Theon, and all the other Starks, she was a bird trapped. The cage was beautiful, warm, and welcoming, but it was still a cage. Or maybe Visenya just convinced herself it was.

“I was only one at the time.” she finishes. Renfri is silent, just staring at Visenya.

“You said you never got vengeance?” she asks, no discernable emotions on her face.

“Never had the chance. Robert Baratheon, who led the rebellion, died on a hunt. And I…” died before I could get vengeance on the others, Visenya wanted to say but the words got caught. She swallows the lump that found its way into her throat. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but Visenya is too stubborn to let them fall. Too stubborn to allow the sadness to poison her, not when things were finally looking up. So she did what she’s best at. She took her sadness and despair and fear, then turned it into anger.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Renfri says, breaking the silence around the two.

“Don’t be. There’s nothing either of us can do for them. But you can still get your vengeance. Don’t let Stregobor slip away from you. Don’t be like me, working in a town you hate because you’re too afraid to do anything else.” Visenya firmly said.

“You don’t think I should let go of my anger?” Renfri said a sarcastic lilt weaved into her words. “Be the better person and move on?”

Visenya allows the words to seep into her brain, pausing for a moment to articulate her feelings. And when she finally talks the words feel like fire coming out of her mouth. Like a dragon roaring as it turns its enemies to ash, leaving nothing behind but the memory of their existence.

“I think you should reign fire on them all.”

Time stands still. Renfri and Visenya carefully watch the other, waiting for someone to do something. Renfri, whose face had been passive and unfeeling, begins to contort into something… fierce. Her lips curl upwards, but not into a smile or even a smirk. No, her lips are curled upwards as she bares her teeth. Her brown eyes are alight with a fire Visenya had never seen in anyone else. Like a dragon reigning hell upon its enemies. And for a moment Visenya wonders if this is what people see when they look at her? When her temper flares and her anger becomes uncontrollable. Is this the face that stares back at them?

Renfri abruptly stands from her sitting position to close the small distance between them. She crouches down on her knees, positioning herself to be in between Visenya legs. Ice cold hands wrap around Visenya’s hot hands, the contact bringing a small sense of comfort to Visenya.

“I promise you, Jane. We will kill every last one of those people who hurt you that still breathe. After I kill Stregobor we will sail to your homeland and get vengeance I swear it.” Renfri said. And something about the fervent look in her eyes and the force that Renfri speaks, Visenya believes her. A warmth that wasn’t there before fills her body, warming her already temperate body. Meeting Renfri’s gaze with stars in her eyes, Visenya’s face twists into a euphoric expression.

No one ever promised to right the wrongs done to her family. The Starks were sympathetic about but never took it farther than that. And everyone else… well everyone else already deemed the Targaryens a house of madmen unfit for justice. Yet here’s Renfri, a woman who’d only known her for hardly more than a day, swearing to bring Visenya the vengeance she thirsts for. The chance to destroy her enemies and return them and their houses to the dirt. Even if Visenya knew they never could.

“But you just met me -” Visenya begins, her voice a whisper, eyes searching Renfri’s for any lies. But she finds nothing but fury, fury, and passion.

“We’ve been over this before Jane. Besides, life’s too short to worry about things like that,” Renfri said, cutting off Visenya’s babbling.

“Visenya,” she said. Her voice barely above a whisper. So quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. “My name is Visenya.” This time the words are louder and more confident. Renfri stares at her for a moment.

“I promise you, Visenya,” she whispers, pulling Visenya’s hands around her neck. The noise from the tavern fades from Visenya’s mind, the seconds seemingly turning into hours. With each second ticking by, her body temperature rises, but not uncomfortably so. Her eyes stare into Renfri’s, counting the flecks of gold that lie hidden deep within them. At some point, their faces draw closer to each other. Their breath fan over the face of the other, the distance between them smaller than it’s ever been; close enough Visenya can nearly taste the scent of Renfri on the tip of her tongue.

You’re a dragon, be a dragon. Visenya yells in her mind, willing herself to for once take a risk. Not like the risks she took in Winterfell when she was a little girl swiping extra bread, but a real once. Something that could matter. So, with a burst of courage, she pushes her face towards Renfri’s, connecting their lips before she can talk herself out of it.

Immediately, Renfri pulls her closer, kissing her with more vigor than Visenya displayed. Like an alcoholic, Visenya feels herself getting addicted to Renfri and the feeling of her lips. They’re rough and dry, but Visenya drinks them up like she hasn’t had a drop of water in weeks. She feels herself getting lost in the feeling, unable to allow her mind to focus on anything other than Renfri’s hands in her hands and the taste of her lips. Ale and raspberries linger on her mouth. At that moment, Visenya decides the taste of raspberries is her favorite.

In one swift movement, Renfri pushes Visenya down onto the bed, following the movements to straddle her. Visenya’s hands trail from Renfri’s hair and down her body. She takes her time trailing from her neck to her hips. A guttural moan escapes Visenya’s mouth as Renfri nips at her lips —

“Jane! Get out of your room and back to work!” Visenya jumps at the sudden noise, almost immediately separating from Renfri. Aldred aggressively bangs on her door a few times more. The wooden floors creak under his weight as his footsteps grow farther away. She sighs in frustration at the interruption. Renfri deftly rolls off of Visenya and begins finger-combing her hair, now more unruly thanks to Visenya. Visenya moves off of her bed and away from Renfri and her bed. Two footsteps and she’s putting on her boots.

“Until tomorrow I suppose,” Renfri said, slowly getting off the bed. She approaches Visenya, placing a whisper of a kiss on the corner of her mouth. And before Visenya can do anything else or even blink, Renfri disappears out her window, leaving it wide open as she did.

The sudden cold cools Visenya’s face as she opens the door to finish the night.

  
  



	4. Stay a Thousand Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! So this is where the rewritten chapters will begin branching off from the original ones. Starting with the og chapter 3 being split into two parts. I hope you all enjoy!

The first rays of morning light cut through the darkness signifying the transition from night to day. Some early risers mingle in the tavern as they nurse full mugs and slowly eat their breakfast to soothe their nasty hangovers. The stale alcohol and vomit that permeates in the room is stronger than most days. A number of windows are stained with ale and wine, hard and sticky to the touch. Only a handful of mugs are clean as the rest of them line the back of the bar still filled with amber liquid. The quiet sound of cloth wiping the inside of cups mixes with the tune Visenya hums under her breath. She’s unable to focus on anything, the fog in her head from sleep . A smile creeps onto her face as her mind wanders away from Blaviken. One day; one more day of mindless work and then Visenya will be gallivanting the world with Renfri. 

It’s silly: to get swept away by a fantasy and let go of any doubt. This only happens in the fairytales Sansa religiously read, not real life. Maybe it’s infatuation or Visenya’s desperation to cling onto something -  _ anything _ . To hold so tightly onto her only chance of possible happiness in this new and strange and terrifying world. It’s only made easier that they mirror each other: two princesses ejected from their home and forced to fight. It makes sense and fits neatly in Visneya’s rationale, but it couldn’t be that. The proof is in every moment Renfri spent in the tavern, pressed against the bar as she assaulted Visenya with sarcastic quips that made her laugh uncontrollably. Or the way her heart speeds up when she sees messy brown hair and how it flutters when Renfri smiles in her direction. This couldn’t be infatuation, but if it is, Visenya doesn’t mind drowning in it. 

“Lovely morning?” Renfri saysm her chin resting on the palm of her hand.

Yes it is silly, but she can't help but live in the moment.

“Better now that you’re here.” The reply forms before her brain catches up. The words are like sticky sweet nectar from a flower. Similar to the first bite from a sour fruit, her face contorts into a grimace. Renfri laughs, the sound muffled by the hand over her mouth. 

“You going soft on me now, Vis? Might have to change my mind about you coming tomorrow,” Renfri says, her tone light and soft like the clouds.

“Please, you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” Visenya says as she puts different fruits and meats on a plate. She grabs a nut and chucks it at Renfri’s face. It hits her cheek before falling onto the counter with a light thud. 

“No I guess not,” Renfri says. She raises the mug to her lips, some of the amber liquid spilling on her chin. Bell-like laughter echoes in the room before Visenya manages to stifle it. 

“Now onto important topics. Like the fact that you just called me Vis?” Visenya says, her head is cocked to the side like a puppy, a slight quirk on her lips. 

“Maybe I did.” Renfri leans forward and so does Visenya. Maybe they really are like magnets drawn to each other. “It’s cute.”

A soft hum comes from Visenya and her golden eyes flicker to the ceiling then back to Renfri. 

“Must be, that's what most people back home would call me. I suppose Visenya is a mouthful.” she says as her grin twists into something more wistful. 

“Should I think of another nickname then?” Renfri asks, brows furrowed, small creases forming on her forehead.

“No, I like it. A reminder of home before everything went to shit, it’s nice.” she smiles. With a gentle touch, Visenya places her thumb on Renfri’s forehead to smooth the lines. The moment is sickeningly sweet, and she finds herself longing for moments like this to be abundant. There’s already been so much death in her life, she doesn’t think she’d be able to take anymore. 

“Tell me about your home,” Renfri says. Visenya moves her hand down to Renfri’s cheek and takes a deep breath. 

A million thoughts run through her mind, descriptions of Winterfell, of the Starks, and all the small things that made it home. Could she talk about the delicate summer snow that fell to the ground, leaving her cheeks bright red? How it fell into Visenya’s hair, shining like jewels when the sun hit it? Or the sounds of the blacksmith working on a new sword and the shouts of Robb, Theon, and Jon training with Ser Rodrik in the morning? Maybe she’d focus on the warmth that Lord Stark and Lady Catelyn held despite the harsh cold, her familial relationship with each of the Stark children? They could’ve been cold and distant, treating her like a prisoner, but they didn’t. They treated her like a member of the pack, when maybe they shouldn’t have. She’d always been angry, lashing out at anyone she could even if it wasn’t deserved. But they didn’t sway, never treated her with the kind of brashness she showed them. 

“Well for one, it was cold and dark. But it was...nice,” She says, settling on the simple explanation. 

“Glad you could be so descriptive, I feel like I’m there right now, honestly.” Renfri says and rolls her eyes. 

“I live to serve.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders and taps Renfri’s face three times. Renfri scrunches her face and moves her head away from Visenya’s assault. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I do have a job to do, believe it or not,” Visenya says. She grabs a rag and begins cleaning the dirty tankard. She focuses on the task, but still feels Renfri’s gaze on her. 

“Stop watching me, you creep.” Visenya says, not looking up from her glass. Two more swipes with the rag and she replaces the clean cup with a dirty one to start the cycle over.

“How could I? Are you sure you aren’t a siren, preparing to feast on my flesh once we leave this town?” Renfri says, mindlessly twirling a fork with her fingers. 

“Well I guess you’ll just have to take that chance.” Visenya muses and sets down the rag and glass. 

“As long as you give me a good time before brutally killing me,” Renfri says with a sing-song lilt. “I’ve got some business I need to attend to before leaving tomorrow. Meet tonight in your room?” Renfri asks. She untangles her legs from the barstool, and turns to leave the tavern. Her figure gets exactly seven paces away before Visenya responds. 

“Not like I have much of a choice anyway!” Visenya says, projecting her voice. Some of the patrons turn their attention to her, but she pays them no mind. 

“You really don’t,” Renfri says. She turns towards Visenya with a wide smile and mischief brimming in her eyes before leaving the tavern. 

And in that moment Visenya prays to every god in this world to preserve Renfri. 

_______________________

The fallen leaves break under Visenya’s footsteps with a sharp  _ crack _ . The tall trees block out the remains of daylight as the sun sets; the greenery not like a comforting canopy that envelopes Visenya in their warmth, rather they’re like vines that wrap around her neck until she can’t breathe. Fog lingers on the ground, making it near impossible to clearly see the floor, obscuring tall roots and slithering creatures that lie in wait for prey. All sorts of horrible beasts and otherworldly creatures that roam the forest at night lead to the disappearance of wildlife with the sun, not a bird to be heard. The ground is damp and cold, an uncomfortable combination even with protective footwear. It smells like moss and rain, with something unpleasant mixed in the air. Blaviken is encompassed by a forest which, as dark and dreary as it may be, is the only place Visenya can think that is void of any distraction the inn brings. 

Her favorite spot to perch herself is a small stream that flows deep in the forest. The trees are sparse, allowing the sun rays to touch her skin as the cool breeze eases her anxieties and fears. It’s also a great point to kick and scream, something Visenya does often. But this time there was a change, something different about the dreary atmosphere. that put a light pep in her step. The town is a horrible place, there’s no question. The people in it are as cold and unwelcoming as the land they lived in, suspicious and frightened to a fault. But maybe the forest is warmer than Visenya thought, prettier than her memories convinced her. 

Or maybe nothing externally was different and it’s just her.

She draws closer to the stream, lost in a daydream of gallivanting across the world to leave behind her sorrow, when she hears a noise. It’s faint at first, easily passed off as a woodland creature in a bush, or the wind making a branch hit a tree. But then she hears it again, and again, and again. As she draws closer, hand on the dagger she keeps strapped to her thigh, the sounds become clearer. Heart pounding in her chest, her adrenaline spikes up with each step taken. Closer now she hears the sound of a plant being pulled from the ground, the noise mingling with the mellow stream. Now three steps away from the break in the forest, she inhales the smell of running water. One step, two steps; now at the edge of the treeline she peers through the branches. The faint outline of a large man crouches in front of the river, pulling various roots from the ground. To her left is the sound of mellow breathing from an animal and the occasional kick in the ground as it snorts. 

With the speed of a spooked deer, Visenya silences her breath and darts behind a tree. She’s never encountered another person this close to nightfall. The townsfolk were too scared to wander far from the town, and travelers stupid enough to brave the forest are rare. Yet there is another traveler that comes to mind. She hasn’t seen Geralt since his arrival, it’s very well possible he’s been camping out here.

Visenya peaks her head out from behind the tree, careful to not make a sound. The man wears familiar black studded leather armor with white hair cascading past his shoulders. A few feet away, a horse grazes on the long grass near the treeline. The tension slowly leaves her body, but not completely. While she knows it’s Geralt, she doesn’t know anything about him other than his name and drink order. 

“You can come out,” Geralt says, his back still towards Visenya. His voice is smooth like dripping honey, but distant and cold like winter snow. She debates just bolting, but before her mind can decide her body reacts. She carefully steps away from the tree, the tall grass tickling her toes as she moves towards the stream. The horse snorts as she moves past it, but does nothing else. She continues to move until she’s a few steps behind him, slightly to his left. 

“Sorry, I didn’t know anyone would be out here,” she says. He pauses his actions to turn and look at her. 

“You thought you’d be the only person in a forest?” he asked with a blank expression. Visenya releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Well when you put it like that, it makes me look stupid.” she says. Visenya crouches beside him and grabs a rock. The stone is flat and smooth under her fingers, the weight well balanced. Geralt pays her no mind, seemingly unbothered by her presence. He continues uprooting plants that he then places into a small bag. The water flows at a leisurely pace, rippling as it hits rocks that jut out of the surface. Long plants dangle in the water, like a person cautiously dipping their toes in, enough to get damp, but not fully committed. She runs her finger over the rock once more and then tosses it into the water. The rock skips on the surface 1 time, 2 times, and then 3 before sinking to the bottom. Her mind plays yesterday over and over again, still remembering clearly when Geralt first entered the tavern as well as the maliciousness and spite the villagers met him with, practically spitting the word Witcher at him as if it’s the worst insult. 

“What’s a Witcher?” she says, once again forming words before her brain could comprehend them. Geralt’s hand pauses mid air and looks at her. She picks up another stone and meets his gaze.

“You don’t know?” he says. His gold eyes pan across her face, looking for a slight smirk or a mocking look in her eyes, anything to indicate any bad intentions. Instead, he’s met with genuine confusion. Visenya shakes her head, brows furrowed at the guarded tone Geralt uses. “A monster hunter. I hunt monsters.” 

“Is that why you came here?” she says. If he hunts monsters, shouldn’t common people be grateful for him? When he came into the tavern, everyone seemed hell-bent to either kill or run him out of town, whichever came first. 

“Ran into one in the swamp.” he says in a tense tone, his words as sharp as the dagger strapped to Visenya. 

“You always such a great conversationalist?” Visenya says, meeting Geralt’s gaze for a second before turning back to the stream. The rock dances across the surface of the water after Visenya tosses it, another rock in hand as soon as it disappears from view. 

“Hmm,” he grunts, the slight rise in his eyebrows and tug on his lips conveys his mild amusement. “You always so chatty to mutants?” he says in a snarky tone. Visenya quietly snorts and tosses another rock into the river. 

“Only the ones with good hair,” she replies without a moment of hesitation. “But if I could offer some advice - hair oils would do a world of wonders for your ends.” she says, imitating his own snarky tone. His gaze moves from her eyes then to her hair and back to her eyes, raising a quizzical eyebrow. Visenya sighs, her hands tangling in the dyed brown hair.

“I assure you, it wasn’t always so bad. Another one of the joys of Blaviken I suppose.” she says.

“If not from Blaviken, then where are you from?” he asked, his eyes carefully trained on her with furrowed brows. 

“Somewhere far away,” Visenya says, her voice a million miles away from their location. He doesn’t say anything further, simply grunting and returning to his previous task. Silence encompasses the duo for a few moments, Visenya staring out at the stream as she rolls a flat rock between her fingers. Her thoughts wander back to Winterfell. She still vividly remembers the crisp air and soft snow that blanketed the ground. She could hear the sound of Rickon’s laughter, like a distant whisper that lingers in the wind. Robb’s constant teasing and Jon’s quiet quips haunt Visenya’s thoughts like a nightmare. Geralt, unaware of the storm brewing in Visenya’s mind, continues his task of harvesting various herbs but would pause every so often to look at her. There was something about her that seemed odd, a faint aura of magic resonating from her. 

“Alas, while you’ve been fantastic company, I fear we must part ways,” Visenya says and stands up from her sitting position, breaking the thick silence. She dusts off her knees, only to realize how muddy her dress is. It appears Geralt noticed as well.

“Your dress is ruined,” he says. 

“I’ll just make another one,” she says after sighing heavily. Sewing is never something she looks forward to. “Maybe Hilda needs me to punch another town idiot.” She makes her way back into the forest. However, before completely out of her hearing range, Visenya picks up the faintest whisper of a masculine laugh. The sound gets carried off into the wind and led into the forest where it would soon dissipate. 

The ghost of Winterfell hangs around Visenya, the conversation with Geralt confirming that. Wherever she is, no matter what she does, her thoughts wander back to them. No, she doesn’t think she’d ever forget them, but maybe leaving will help.

________________________

Something about the ceiling is particularly captivating that night. Visenya’s eyes trace the cracks and the crevices and count the grain in the wood. She’s seen this a million times in the year she’s lived in this room. Dust collects in the far corners, an occasional spider disappearing from view. Speckles of wood shavings fall through the cracks when a strong wind hits the building. She’s done all of this a million times, so why is she enthralled by it tonight? Maybe it doesn’t have to do with the ceiling. Maybe her mind is a million miles away and the ceiling just happens to be the chosen spot of her gaze. 

The faint sound of breathing next to Visenya pulls her from her thoughts. She moves her gaze to Renfri’s still form beside her. She’s sprawled on the bed, eyes closed with a small smile on her peaceful face. Her breaths are slow and deep, but her eyes flutter at any noise disturbance from below. Her closed eyes highlight her long and wispy eyelashes that leave feather light kisses on the tips of her cheekbones. While this close, Visenya can see the faint freckles that dot along her cheeks, like constellations in the sky. Brown hair fanned on the pillow frames her face like rays of light surrounding the sun. Visenya’s eyes trace down towards her lips that subtly open with each breath she inhales and exhales. They’re bright pink and swollen, causing them to appear poutier than usual. 

She looks peaceful and content, and Visenya wonders what’s running through her mind. Is she dreaming or caught in between the dream world and the waking world? The lines that indent her face are gone, leaving her skin smooth and youthful. The harsh austere beauty that originally drew Visenya is gone, replaced with an innocent and delicate beauty. It gives a glimpse into how Renfri could’ve been if not for Stregobor. If the world wasn’t so cruel to her. 

“Now who’s watching who?” Renfri mutters, sleep thickly coating her words.

“I haven't the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Visenya replies, lazily moving her eyes back to the ceiling, her lips curling into a large grin. “But, if it were true, would that make you the Siren in this scenario?” 

“I suppose it would.” Renfri muses, rolling onto her side. Visenya mimics her movements so that they're both facing each other. “Have you been ensnared by my charms, Vis?” she teases, closing the distance between them. 

“What do I get if I say yes?” 

“My eternal companionship?” Renfri says.

“While useful for the future, I’m much too impatient for that. How about something more immedient?” Visenya says, closing the distance between them to attach her lips to Renfri's, who immediately responds, lacing her fingers through Visenya’s hair. The kiss is sweet and warm, and fills Visenya’s stomach with a fuzzy feeling. The taste of her lips is sweet enough to cause her teeth to ache. The sensation is addicting, the feeling of her lips pressing against Visenya’s. Or maybe she just likes Renfri being this close. Either way she’s on a high she never wants to come down from. 

Renfri is the first to pull away, her finger twirls a lock of Visenya’s hair around. Visenya's eyes flutter shut, enjoying the soothing feeling of Renfri closeness. Silence falls over them for a moment, putting them into a state filled with serenity and simplicity before their thrilling adventure begins after the morning.

“Am I to guess brown isn’t your natural hair color either?” Renfri asks, breaking the silence. 

“Gods no, it's naturally silver.” she says. Her body relaxes into Renfri’s touch instantly as she melts into the bed. 

“Why dye it then?” Renfri adjusts herself, propping her back against the wall with her hand in Visenya’s hair. Her hand has moved to graze her scalp with the tips of her nails. Visenya raises both of her eyebrows, not feeling the need to verbalise her answer. 

“Stupid question, got it. Have you considered going back?” Renfri says and slids her hand out of Visenya’s hair. Her hand traces the outline of Visenya’s face as she leaves a trail of kisses along her neck. The cold temperature of her lips is a welcomed change to the heat Visenya naturally radiates. 

“I have.” Visenya says, propping her head with the palm of her hand. “Maybe I will once we leave. Gods know that dye isn’t doing my hair any favors.” 

“Can’t wait for the reveal,” Renfri says, a smirk upon her lips.

“Speaking of which, tomorrow’s the big day then?” Visenya asks.

“It would appear so. You haven’t changed your mind already have you?” 

“I was planning to see if that Witcher would take me with him when he leaves. But if that doesn’t happen, then I guess I’m all yours.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders, desperate to hide the smile she’s fighting.

“Hmm, what a shame. Whatever could I do to convince you to stay, fair maiden?” Renfri says, her voice filled with mirth. 

“A fight to the death perhaps, winner gets me?” 

“Then it’s settled. I’ll pull every dirty trick I know in that fight to win.” Renfri says. 

She throws a leg around Visenya’s hips, caging her body in. She steadies herself by pressing her arms on both sides of Visenya’s neck. With lightning speed, she peppers Visenya’s face with small kisses, the sensation of her lips tickling her skin. Visenya’s face scrunches up as she laughs until her stomach begins to hurt. 

“Stop it, stop it!” Visenya playfully shouts in between bouts of laughter. 

Half-heartedly, Visenya attempts to slap Renfri, but it doesn’t work. Instead she continues her assault, leaving kisses on Visenya's forehead, cheeks, chin, and tip of her nose. Visenya’s heart rate speeds up as the butterflies in her stomach crescendo until it’s like a swarm of them inside her. This continues on for a few more minutes before Renfri pulls her face away, but stays in the same position. 

They pause for a moment, watching each other as they allow the silence to envelope them, until Visenya breaks it.

“Promise me you won’t die.” she says quietly. Silence rings in the room and for a brief moment Visenya thinks Renfri didn’t hear her. 

“I promise.” 

_______________

The moment is like something out of a book. A horrible, terrible retelling of a tragedy. Like the songs about star-crossed lovers to warn children about the dangers of love. Dark clouds obscure the sun and cast a grey tint on Blaviken. Villagers filter into the center of the town, their whispers lost to Visenya. The dead bodies of Renfri’s band are scattered in the vicinity, killed by Geralt - who is nowhere to be found. The bitter air bites at her exposed skin as the wind whips her brown hair, her hand that holds the strap of her travel bag is stark white. The travel cloak Sansa made wildly flaps in the air - hard enough that her longsword sheathed on her hip gets caught in it. Her wide eyes are transfixed on the scene. The anticipation of this day that culminated into a grand fantasy in the pan of two days imploded in a mere second. One decision and a handful of movements managed to ruin Visenya. 

Renfri.

Renfri’s dead body lies on the ground in the center of the chaos. The open wound on her neck stains the ground red. Wide unblinking eyes stare at Visenya as her brown hair is fanned around her body, matted with blood. 

A man with white hair that has thinned with age stumbles towards Renfri from across Visenya. He wears black robes with delicate embroidery made from an expressive material. A scruffy white beard lines his jaw, hiding some of his placid face. Stregobor, the town’s wizard. Sharp golden eyes follow his movements as he leans down to the ground to inspect Renfri’s body with a clinical eye. 

“Incredible.” His eyes glint with excitement, fiending to experiment on her body. “Marilka! Marilka? Marilka!” He stands from his position and turns towards the crowd. From his right, Marilka along with her mother approach him. 

“Get me a cart. We’ll take her to the tower for an autopsy!” he says.

A fire inside Visenya flares to life, all the rage and sadness that has been bubbling under the surface channels into fire. As her temper rises so does her body temperature. The need to unleash her anger and watch him die, to let him feel all the pain and suffering he’s caused burns inside her, barely contained. Vengeance rears its head, as the heat begins to consume Visenya. The tight grip on the bag strap is moved to her sword. Geralt pops out of a corner with his sword in hand.

“If you touch a single hair on her head… yours will be on the ground next.” Geralt seethes. He stands behind Stregobor, his sword pressed against the side of his neck. His voice is rough and hoarse, similar to a snarling wild animal. The scowl set on his face is scarier than all the tales of death Old Nan used to tell. Stregobor’s eyes move from the blade to Geralt. 

“Have you gone mad?” Stregobor says, his tone neutral but with a hint of smugness hidden beneath it. “Her mutation, it influences people.” Visenya moves forward to stand slightly behind Geralt. Her face is stone as she watches Stregobor. 

“That’s how she got these men to follow her - for you to follow her! We need to take it!” he proclaims as he waves a hand in Visenya’s vicinity.

_ Could it be -- no. What I felt wasn’t due to magic tricks.  _

But even with that assurance, a piece of Visenya wonders if Renfri did beguile her. Would that better explain the instant connection? But it was genuine, it had to be. In every radiant smile filled with warmth and kittens and butterflies. Every look that drowned Visenya in her honey sweet eyes. Her rough voice that somehow managed to sound sweeter than all the minstrels and bards in the world. No, that couldn’t be fabricated, not by any magic in this world or the next.

“Don’t you touch her,” Visenya says her words like a snake spitting venom, yet Stregobor pays her no mind.

“Witcher, you butchered bodies in the street of Blaviken.” he says, his eyes squint and an air of confidence forms around him. 

“You’re a beast!” Aldred’s yell breaks the silence around the villagers.

“You endangered the girl!” Mirilka’s mother yells.

“Beast!” another yells.

“He killed every single one --” 

“You took the law into your own hands. You made a choice and you’ll never know if it was the right one” Stregobor adds more fuel to the fire, feeling untouchable in the mist of the enraged villagers. 

“He’s a bad one!’

The anger escalates as people grab onto rocks or anything else they can get their hands on. They toss them at Geralt along with various slurs and threats of death. With his longsword shielding his face, Geralt lowers himself to the ground. Visenya feels cold hands grab onto her shoulders. Her body goes limp and they pull her back into the crowd. Out of the corner of her eye she sees the profile of Isadora, her blonde hair messier than usual. 

“Stay here,” Isadora says, whispering the words in her ear before she disappears into the tavern. Marilka moves from her mother to stand beside Stregobor and lowers her body to crouch on the ground. Now eye to eye with Geralt, a blank expression on her face, she opens her mouth.

“Leave Blaviken Geralt, and never come back.” Marilka says in a cold tone. Geralt’s eyes flit to Renfri’s body then back to Marilka. He rises from the ground, more rocks smack against him. As he turns and scans the crowd, his eyes rest on Visenya for a moment, but looks away. With a limp, Geralt moves through the crowd of people to the exit. The villagers follow him like a pack of wild animals, pelting him with more rocks and vile words, some even spitting on him. 

Visenya watches as he leaves, as helpless as a girl of one year when King’s Landing was sacked. The people continue towards the exit of the village, their screams no longer heard. She feels stuck in place frozen like a statue. Her gaze moves over to Renfri’s still body. Her brows slightly furrow the longer she stares at the woman. The world twisted her into a monster and then spit on her when it suited their narrative. 

Visenya notices Stregobor gathering a few people to bring her body to his tower, so he could pull her apart like an experiment and see what made her twitch. Visenya feels her fists clench, fingernails digging into her palm so harshly it draws blood. The cowardly wizard briefly meets her gaze once more. He simply turns back to his newest project. Her mind began to lock itself deeper and deeper inside itself. Her last memories of Renfri replaying. One step, two steps, three steps. The mud beneath her  _ quelches _ with each stride. The anger inside her returns with a vengeance. She stops three paces from him. The remaining villagers scatter upon noticing her hand upon the longsword. 

“I would recommend getting back to work, at the inn if I remember correctly.” Stregobor says. His expression is calm and cool, with a hint of arrogance in his eyes. Like a proud bird preening at its success. He surveys her and his chin tilts upwards.

“I will kill you.” Visenya says, her cool tone not betraying the fire inside. “Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even a year from now. But I promise you I will. Revel in your victories while you still breathe.” And with those final words, she swiftly turns and beelines for the tavern. 

If Visenya knew that would be the last time she’d see her alive she would’ve pleaded for Renfri to just leave now. Let Stregobor live out the rest of his miserable life while they travel the country, finding adventure at every corner. Make her see that vengeance wasn’t worth the effort. Who needs to live in the past when you have a new exciting future around the corner?

But she didn’t. 

And now she’ll never get the chance.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. The Dragon's Daughter

The sound of cheering is like nails against a chalkboard in Visenya's ears, ringing at a frequency that should be unnatural, the sound crescendoing with each passing second. Her heart pounds furiously in her chest, face red with anger and eyes damp with unshed tears. The shakiness in her hand makes pouring drinks difficult, however no one in the room seems bothered by it. They were happy for some reason, drunkenly celebrating one thing or another. Normally irate and coarse people join in on the merriments, happily drinking from full mugs and bantering back and forth. Isadora flounces around the drunks, gracefully managing to avoid crashing into any of the staggering people. Aldred converses with a few patrons as he passes them, his scraggly beard jiggling as he lets out yet another bellowing laugh. Someone in a far corner of the room took it upon themselves to be the entertainment, singing bawdy tavern songs. He's horrible at it, Visenya can't help but notice, growing more irate with each off key note that contended with the sounds of a dying cat. **  
**

But even with the horrible entertainment and the cheap ale everyone is happy.

Everyone except for Visenya.

Her mouth is in a tight thin line, eyes unmoving as she stares straight ahead, not really seeing anything in front of her. It's pathetic and weak - she is pathetic and weak, with her shoulders slouched and devastation bleeding from her eyes. The atmosphere is suffocating, filling her throat with ash until she can't breathe. The storm brewing in her mind picks up in ferocity as she clenches her fist tightly. A chill runs up her spine that leaves behind a tingling sensation as the room's ambience dims until only the faint ringing is left.

"Hey wench! Another drink!" a man staggers over to the counter. He aggressively pushes his mug to Visenya, ripping her out of her thoughts. His pudgy face is caked in dirt and something...fouler, the smell assaulting Visenya's nostrils. His beady brown eyes are glazed over, blood shot from the copious amount of alcohol he'd consumed. His body is lazily leaned up against the counter, not able to hold up his own weight due to his intoxicated state. He's dangerously tipping onto the bar stool, the same one Renfri should be perched on. Visenya's gaze flickers to him, eyes hardening as she acknowledges the man.

And suddenly, something snaps.

"Get it yourself." Visenya snarls, throwing a rag she was holding on the counter. She grabs the pitcher of ale and pushes it toward him with more force than necessary. The pitcher slides across the wood, falling over the edge and spilling its contents onto the man. He jumps back with the dexterity drunks usually don't have, a shout stuck in the back of his throat.

With one last piercing glare, Visenya storms away. Unlike Isadora who is masterfully weaving through people, Visenya roughly shoves anyone in her way. Shouts of protest str to surround her, but upon seeing the fire in her eyes, they quickly back down.

Her mind has been made up.

The loud thudding of her feet on the wooden floor beats as loudly as her heart. The floorboards below her moan as they threaten to break with each step. Luckily, the upper level is clear of any patrons. The echoes of people yelling and cheering is faint, giving her a respite from the noise. She moves towards a room. She flings her door open, the wood slamming against the wall from the force. Like a bull, she charges into the room, immediately moving towards the chest that holds her belongings.

"The fuck do you think you're doing girl?" Aldred's voice booms from the doorway. It momentarily causes Visenya to pause, but not for long.

"Leaving." Visenya simply says, not bothering to look at him as she pulls out a pair of travelling pants.

"Like fuck you are! Ben says you poured an entire pitcher of ale on him, that's definitely coming out of your wages." He rages, taking a step into the room. His loud steps act as the thunder booming during the storm in her mind.

"You don't pay me at all!" Visenya says, her tone is as sharp as her blade. She turns towards Aldred, glaring at him with a ferocity no one in the town has seen on Visenya.

"Then I guess you'll have to figure out somewhere else to get food, cause it ain't coming from me. You've been nothing but trouble since you got here." Alred continues to rant, taking a step with each word until his toes are touching Visenya's hand. She pulls out a tunic, tossing it with her pants.

"Then it's a good thing I'm leaving." Visenya cooly replies, her tone as frosty as the northern winds. She pulls out her cloak, tossing it with the other clothes, her fingers ghosting over the embroidered dragon. She slams the chest shut and stands up. Her gaze now level with Alred's. She continues to glare at the man, daring him to make a move. He straightens his back to try and stand taller than Visenya. His adam's apple is wavering slightly, exposing his nerves. A predatory grin paints itself on Visenya, a feral side taking over.

"Fuck that, you owe me you stupid bitch!" He grapples her, trying to pull her out of the room. Heat begins to build up in Visenya, flaring with her temper. Her temperature grows to an uncomfortable warmth until her skin is as hot as a wildfire. Alred quickly pulls his hands back, releasing her from his grip. Her stares at her with his mouth agape in shock.

"How - how - how did..." he stutters, taking a few steps away.

"I am Visenya Lightbringer of House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. I am the dragon's daughter. The next time you raise a hand to me...will be the last time. You. Have. Hands." Visenya spits, her face twisting into a snarl. Aldred exudes fear and it continues to feed the fury inside her.

"You're a monster like that damned Witcher!" he yells. The initial shock he felt wears off and is replaced with the malicious behavior she saw him treat Geralt with.

"You're a fucking mutant." he spits, moving towards her once again. Instead of going for her arms, he grabs the neckline of her dress, dragging her around like a rag-doll.

"Let me go you fucking bastard!" Visenya wails at him, the pitch rivaling a banshee's cry. She continues to attempt to pry him away from her, but his grip is iron. He manages to drag her down to the first floor, her screams silencing the previously merry patrons. They watch on as Visenya is thrown to the ground, Alred viciously grinning at her as she scowls back, not allowing herself to show weakness.

"This bitch is a mutant like that fucking Witcher. Burnt me with her bare hands she did!" Aldred exclaims to the patrons, all silently watching the situation unfold. He raises his hands to show the minor burns he retained. A series of gasps erupts from the people. A few of the people cover their mouths in shock, while others look on with a straight face. The room is plunged into silence, everyone watching with bated breath. Visenya, still on the ground, stares ahead unsure of what else to do.

"Burn her!" a patron screams. And that's all it took to break the dam that kept their hateful words away.

"Throw her in a cell!" a woman screams, hysterics clawing at her voice.

"Fuck that, we need to kill the thing before it kills us!" a man replies, Leon, that's his name. He came to the tavern every morning for breakfast and wherever Visenya served him, he would slip her a few spare coins. But now here he is, condemning her to die.

Something sticky and cold smacks Visenya, soaking the top of her dress. As the amber liquid drips down her exposed skin, an empty tankard hits her left shoulder. The force of it catching her by surprise as her arm gives out beneath her. She hits the ground with a soft thud, but no one stops. Their screams crescendo louder and louder until Visenya can't hear her own thoughts. The vicious words blend together, creating a discordant melody that grates against her eardrums. Some of the more ballsy patrons follow suit and start throwing anything they can within their grasp: cups - both empty and filled to the brim with ale; leftover food; and eating utensils.

Humiliation burns on her face with each word and object thrown at her. How does she always end up here, completely helpless like a weak little girl? Her thoughts wonder back to that night, when Walder Frey stabbed the North in the back. They wander back to that moment when she'd been so close to her freedom, moments away from being out of Walder Frey's grasp as his ratty soldiers hunted her. Only be shot down like a dog and gutted like a pig. The fear that coursed through her in that moment, the hopelessness that clawed at her when all she could do was cry as she faced her executioners.

And for a moment she almost did that same thing, nearly sobbing when two of the larger men in Blaviken push back their chairs. Her whole body shakes as the sound of their heavy footsteps cuts through the screams of everyone else. Her heart hammers against her chest when she could see their feet only three paces away from her. Their shadows loom over her form like dark clouds obscuring the sun and plunging everything into darkness. And Visenya couldn't help it when a cry escaped her mouth, so quietly the noise in the room swallowed it.

But then it hit her. All the rage and sadness that's been brewing inside her for years unleashing into one catastrophic event

Like an abrupt slap in the face, fire courses through her veins as the blood beneath her skin boils. The sticky substance coating her body evaporates away with quiet sizzle, the vapor dissipating into the air. The fire grows hotter and hotter with each passing second, to the point that Visenya is convinced her skin is beginning to melt off. The two men quickly step back, feeling the intense heat emanating around her. She shuts her eyes, praying to any god that may be listening, the words in her mind jumped and nonsensical - like the ramblings of a mad man. Crescent shaped scars are imprinted onto the wooden floor, courtesy of her fingers digging into it. The heat inside her swells, but no else in the room seems to have noticed. They don't see the flames dancing in her golden eyes behind her eyelids; the smoke billowing from the wood beneath her form.

A piercing scream escapes her mouth, cutting through the room like a knife. The pitch and intensity make the tavern windows crack in patterns that somewhat resemble spiderwebs, and any other less stable glass elements in the room burst instantly. Blood is dripping from Visenya fingertips, evaporating upon coming into contact with the heated wood. Beside her scream, the room is plunged into silence as everyone in the room covers their ears. Their faces scrunched in pain as the pitch of the scream grates against their eardrums. And suddenly it grows cold. People begin shivering, enclosing their arms around themselves in an attempt to conserve any remaining body heat. Each breath they take is visible in a puff of cold air.

But not for Visenya.

Instead, the fire inside her skyrockets, the temperature reaching alarming rates as the chill overcomes the room. Sweat pours from her body, sizzling and dissipating as soon as it makes contact with her skin. And yet again, Visenya nearly cries, but not out of fear of anyone in the room, but in fear of boiling herself alive. She repositions her aching body, putting her weight on her knees as she attempts to sit up, slowly forcing herself into a standing position. She's unsteady and nearly falls more times than she could keep track off. Her eyes snap open, wildly glancing about the room, looking for something - anything to help her. But she finds nothing.

Until it stops. For a brief second Visenya feels relief as cold air smacks against her body, but the sensation doesn't last.

With a flash, bright golden fire bursts from her, filling the entire room in one second. The force of the blast pushes everything back, people and objects alike being blown away. Visenya is thrown onto the ground, her body smacking against the wood like a ragdoll. The patrons scream as they're engulfed in the flames, the smell of charred flesh filling the air. She watches as the flames dance around the room, the people flailing around, attempting to put out the fire that burned their skin. Screams of horror and crackling fire create a sick symphony in Visenya's head. A sadistic joy worms its way inside of her. Moments ago they were spitting on her, treating her as the dirt beneath their feet, and now they're paying for it.

She slowly stands from her kneeling position, her amber eyes are alight with dark wonder, watching the flames dance through the room. The chaos she created from her pain and sorrow renewing her damaged pride. The charred floor beneath her creaks from the weight as she mindlessly moves around the room.

And she's drunk. Not on any ale or wine, but on power; pure unbridled power formed from her rage. It's intoxicating, unexplainable, but she drowns in it. She loses herself in the satisfaction brimming inside her, imagining every person - every face - in this room as the people of Westeros who hurt her most. She closes her eyes, picturing each person perfectly: Robert Baratheon; Tywin Lannister; Walder Frey; Cersei Lannister; Joffrey Baratheon; the Mountain; all of them. And when she opens her eyes, she no longer sees the people of Blaviken, no, they are no longer the stupid citizens who are afriad of their own shadows. In the hysteria she fully believes that all those people are in this room right now, paying for all the pain and hurt they've caused.

She's pulled from her dark fantasies by a quiet whimper. Her head snaps towards the source of the noise, the corner farthest from her. Aldred is cowering in a corner, violently screaming as he attempts to put out any fire that touches him. A smile filled with sinister intentions and malicious deeds forms on Visenya's face. In a daze, she moves towards him, and notices a pitcher of rum that managed to not be tipped over or destroyed in the chaos. She grabs it, unbothered by the heat of the metal. It singes upon contact, but her hand remains unburnt. She approaches Aldred at a leisurely pace, a cruel smile appearing on her face. Upon standing before him, Aldred looks up at her, fear in his eyes. His fear feeds something inside of her. A fiendish joy from the power she possesses.

"What the fuck on you doing!" he screams, salty tears pouring from his eyes. Visenya simply lowers herself so she's at the same level as him.

" _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor._ " Visenya says in Old Valyrian, enjoying the confusion that dances on his features, mingling with the fear. And with that she pours the alcohol over Aldred, watching as the flames engulf him with a new vigor. The alcohol enhances the ferocity of the flames. She steps back from his body slowly, eyes not moving as he burns. A small laugh bubbled from her throat, watching him wither in pain. His screams bellow louder than before, until there's nothing. Visenya stands in the burning building, dancing through the flames. She watches as they burn, refusing to leave until the last scream is silenced. She sips from the pitcher still in her hand holding it until the bitter drink is drained, along with any life in the room. 

-

It takes hours for the flames to begin to die out. The patrons previously inside the tavern long dead, their screams no longer echoing on the walls. Visenya stays in the room until all that's left is ruins and ashes. Burnt human flesh lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of scorched wood and burning rage. At one point the second story collapsed onto itself, mingling with the rubble of the ground level. Visenya managed to avoid being crushed, moving around in a trance-like state. Her eyes dance across the debris, looking for anything of use.

A glint immediately captures her attention. A steel sword is partially visible. She moves towards it, grasping the longsword in her hands. The sword is dirty, covered in soot and debris, but the roaring dragon on the hilt is still intact. The sword Robb had commissioned for her when they went to war. "A sword fit for a fierce warrior," he had told her.

Near the sword were the remnants of her travelling clothes, leaving nothing but scraps of burnt leather. Her cloak was charred in various spots, but somehow it's relatively untouched. A small mercy Visenya is grateful for. With a clasp of a dragon and wolf intertwined, she attached the cloak to her body. And with these two key pieces, Visenya felt one step closer towards who she'd been, what she is meant to be.

A dragon. A dragon breathing fire.

The entrance to the tavern is nothing but crumbled stone and melted metal that litters the exit. She moves over some of the rubble lying around on the ground, pointedly not looking at the dead bodies surrounding her. Stepping out of the ruined building, the cold air hitting her body immediately. It's a welcomed change from the heat emanating from Visenya, cooling her warm skin. Taking a look around, most of the buildings are in a similar state as the tavern. Buildings collapsed on themselves with dead bodies littering the ground. Terror is eternally etched on their faces, the sudden burst of fire taking everyone by surprise.

Visenya's gaze lands on the tower belonging to the wizard, completely untouched by the fire. She moves to step towards the tower, but stops herself. Stregobor had no qualm letting the entirety of the town get butchered by Renfri, as long as it saved his own skin. Why would he come out for Visenya? And what would she do if he did?

Instead she shakes her head, exiting the town in the same direction as Geralt. Visenya's mind is a void of nothingness, not able to focus on any one thought. Everything is hazy, she walks like it's not real. None of this is real, it's a dream, it has to be. Reality seems so far away from her, the ruined town of Blaviken getting foggier with each step taken.

Until it dawns on her.

It starts with the bile that stirs in her stomach, creeping up her throat like a slithering snake stalking it's next meal. Then her mind begins to clear, the cold wind smacking against her face and cooling the fire beneath her skin. Suddenly the scent of burning flesh overcomes her senses, despite Blaviken being miles away by this point, so far she couldn't see the smoke billowing from the fires that died out.

And it's overwhelming. The scent; the screams; but worst of all, the indifference to the deaths-- no the suffering she caused. Visenya falls to the ground, vomiting the entirety of her stomach's contents. The harsh scent of burning flesh nauseating her further as tears stained with crimson fall delicately down her cheeks, a stark contrast to the fierce monster she was mere hours ago.

While ignorant and cruel, the people of Blaviken didn't deserve a slaughter. Not all of them. Especially in not such a horrific manner.

Maybe she truly is the monster they said she was.

**~~~~~~~~~~~**

Valyrian Translations:

~ _Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor: a dragon is not a slave_


	6. Silver Towers Turned to Dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh it’s taken longer to get this out then I intended! I’m so sorry! I hope you enjoy this chapter nonetheless. :D

The road winds and turns ahead of Visenya, like a labyrinth that never ends. The sun bathes everything beneath it in a soft glow warm, the miles upon miles of farm fields surrounding the road basking in its radiance. Fields of overgrown grass tinged gold by the sun act as the walls around the dirt road, swaying lazily in the breeze. Yet the sun is deceiving, a chill hangs in the air, causing any travelers Visenya passes to bundle themselves further into their cloak. However, Visenya finds herself no longer affected by the cold. The fire that laid dormant just under Visenya’s skin since waking up in Blaviken furiously fighting the cold in the wind. It bubbled just under the surface, enough for her to sense it but calm enough to not cause any harm.

She’s been walking for days, mindlessly following the road, allowing the winds to guide her to her next destination. Six days. It’s been six days since the catastrophe that is Blaviken happened. And despite her best efforts, Visenya can’t seem to forget about it, no matter how hard she tries, it lingers in the back of her mind. 

Every night when she lays down to go to sleep, kept company by only the stars and the trees around her, Visenya can hear the screams of the people burning alive. They echo in her mind, coming together in a sick melody, the tones grating and harsh. When she closes her eyes, even for a brief second, she can see them, their images clear enough that she could taste the fear in the air. She’d watch them burn, performing a dance of fire and blood, the personification of what House Targaryen stands for. 

But the worst part isn’t the memories following her, haunting her like ghosts. It isn’t the regret and pain she feels whenever she remembers the terrible faint she bestowed upon them. No, the worst part is she didn’t care. Even on the hardest days, when she was too stuck in her melancholy she didn’t care. Their faces were fleeting, their lives unimportant, and their potential non-existent to Visenya. 

She knows she committed mass murder in same way her grandfather did and she feels nothing. Nothing but a dark obsession with the fire she created. 

So she runs. She locks away Blaviken in the same spot the Starks, her mother and siblings, and her own life reside. 

To the left the grass rustles, breaking Visenya from her thoughts. Turning her head, she sees nothing but tall golden grass lazily swaying in the breeze; no animal or bandit preparing to ambush a lone traveller. Her eyes narrow, surveying the area one last time. A pit rests in her stomach as anxiety creeps into her mind. And as her hackles raise, so does the fire inside of her, ready to incinerate any potential attacker. But there wasn’t anything there. She rotates her body, looking in all directions hoping to spot whatever was the cause of her sudden dread. Subconsciously, her hand rests atop the pommel of her blade, readying herself to unsheathe it in a moment's notice. 

But even as her keen eyes focus on the surrounding area, taking in every minor detail, she sees nothing out of the ordinary. 

A second passes and she's about to turn around and continue towards the nearby inn.

_Crunch._

She turns to her right, ready to unleash hellish fury on the cloaked figure standing before her. She raises her blade and brings it down towards them. The figure manages to nimbly dogge out of the way. In another fluid, motion Visenya strikes, however the blow never manages to make impact, as a blunt object makes contact with the back of her head. And as her body falls to the ground, another figure approaches. Black blotches dot her vision as the figure pulls down their hood, revealing wheat gold hair, sunkissed skin with freckles dotting their cheeks, and pointed ears. 

The person, man or woman, she can’t tell - speaks to another person. The language is light and musical and completely foreign to Visenya. Her ashen brows furrow and she tries to speak, but the words get caught in her throat. So she tries again, this time managing a pitiful whine that sounds more like a dying animal than a person. 

The figure's attention darts back to Visenya, an alarmed expression painted on his face. He says something else to the other person and then turns back to Visenya.

“Get some rest why don’t you,” A moment later, Visenya watches as the pommel of a dagger cracks on the top of her head, rendering her unconscious. 

##  **o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

It’s cold, that much is obvious, so obvious Visenya - who never gets cold anymore - notices it. Not the type of cold Winterfell bestowed upon its inhabitants, pelting them in its relentless bitter chill and glistening snow that would freeze a man to death without hesitation. No, it’s a different type of cold, the one that can only come from pain and suffering that’s so strong it bleeds into the air and syphons any joy until all that’s left is frigid air that’s still like a statue. 

She doesn’t hear anything, not even the distant sounds of footsteps or voices that slowly trickle into the room. It’s completely silent. The walls in the room are made of stone, with tiny rays of light pouring through the small windows. The ground beneath her is cold and wet, either stone or dirt - she isn’t sure. 

And for a moment Visenya thinks she could be dead, that her attacker put more force into their strike than originally realized, but dead people wouldn’t be tied up. Her hands clench, feeling the rough rope that binds her wrists, it’s frayed and old, but tied tight. 

She turns her head slightly to the right, seeing a head full of bright white hair and a wolf pendant hanging from his neck.

“Geralt.” Her voice sounds like it hadn’t been used in days, which is possible. Who knows how much time has passed.

She feels a surge of anger rushing through her, images of Renfri’s dead body lying on the ground, blood pouring from the fatal wound on her neck. And for a second she contemplates screaming and yelling at Geralt, scorning him for what he’s done. But as soon as it appears, the feeling fades, ice cold water pouring over the fire in her veins. 

“Jane.” Geralt replies, turning his head so he’s looking at her. His amber eyes stare at Visenya, brows furrowed. “What are you doing here?” 

And just like that the spell was over. Like water breaking through a dam, ambient noise streams into the room, filling Visenya’s ears with distant shouts and feet pounding. And the air… the air feels less dead.

“I don’t know, I was traveling to a nearby inn when I was ambushed. Same as you it would seem.” She turns to her left to try and get a look at their third companion who’s knocked out cold. His skin is pale like ice, but not as luminous or enrapturing, floppy brown hair that looks well washed and conditioned obscures his face. Bright blues and reds color his clothes that are ostentatious and impractical for travel, with sleeves that are slightly puffed at the shoulders. 

Definitely not a warrior. 

Geralt starts jerking to the left and right, attempting to free his arms from the bindings locking them in place. Combined with the sudden movement and grunts of frustration he’s letting out, the man wakes up. His lolling head shoots up, his eyes fantcally surveying the room. They land on Visenya for a moment, his eyes the same shade of blue as his shirt, before they flit to the corner of his vision. He lets out a small sigh of relief, his tense posture physically deflating as he leans against Geralt’s back. 

“This is the part where we escape.” he says. Any panic or fear that he initially showed upon waking up is gone, replaced with a sense of ease and confidence. But not in his abilities, no, he seems positive Geralt will get them out of this mess. 

Visenya can’t help the snort that leaves her mouth. 

“This is the part where they kill us!” Geralt exclaims, not amused by the man behind him. 

“Who’s they?” Visenya asks, hoping one of them could catch her up. Nobody gets the chance to reply however. A woman clothed in poorly made garments and long brown hair burst into the room.

Like a wild boar charging towards its target, she moves to the man behind Geralt, lifting her leg in a smooth motion and driving it into the man's chest. A cry of pain escapes his mouth as the wind is knocked out of him. In a language foreign to Visenya, with similar intonation to the one she heard before being knocked out, the woman says something in a scathing tone. She says the phrase at him like a cobra spitting venom. 

Like the wind, the woman then moves to Geralt greeting him in the same manner, before finally moving to stand before Visenya. Her features are pointed and regal looking with delicately pointed ears. Her eyes are the same shade as the forest during the darkest night, a mix of emerald and black with a hint of silver streaming in from the moon. She would be ethereal, in a goddess of war kind of way, if not for the heavy bags under her eyes, in shades of blue and black or the sunken appearance of her face-- a sign of under-eating. But she’s proud and angry-- like a roaring lion as it shows its teeth. 

Visenya golden eyes narrowed into slits, challenging the foreign woman to treat her as she did Geralt and the other man. And she did not disappoint.

Despite looking as if she could deteriorate any second now, she kicks Visenya with the force of a fabled giant, rendering Visenya breathless. For a brief moment, everything goes black as small dots cover her vision. But she doesn’t move back into the bodies behind her, or let out a grunt of pain. Her pride is too strong to show weakness, even when she’s at an obvious disadvantage. 

Warm liquid begins to pool in her mouth and without hesitation, Visenya spits it out. The crimson liquid sprays in the air, the woman narrowly managing to avoid being hit.

“Elves!” Geralt exclaims. Another man in similar garb to the woman comes into the room with an ornate lute in hand. He begins buckling at the strings, breaking them as he goes. The sound is painful, similar to the noise of silverware scraping against a plate, but worse. It lingers in her head, only to return enfold when the man breaks another string. 

“Oi that’s my lute. Give that back!” the man exclaims, more concerned about his lute than their safety it would seem. 

“Maybe focus on staying alive.” Visenya mutters, wiggling to try and loosen the knot around her wrist. 

“Quick Geralt do your- your- witchering thing!” the man finishes, unperturbed by Visenya’s comment. 

“Shut up!” Geralt yells, before being kicked by the woman again, a crack resonating in the room. Visenya’s face scrunches up in a wince, the sound worse than the pain probably is. 

Like a predator circling its prey, the woman makes her way back to Visenya. She leans down until the two are eye to eye, and doesn't hesitate to slap Visenya across the face, the force causing her head to swing to the left. Before she has a chance to recuperate from the blow, the woman punches the other side of Visenya’s face. Her hands slid down, finding purchase on her cloak. 

The cloak Sansa made for her. One of the only things she has left of the Starks. A reminder of a time when things were simpler and she still had a home.

“No please don’t--!” Visenya desperately pleads, but it’s too late. The woman tears the fabric of the cloak. The side that had the dire wolf embroidery completely torn off. She tosses the piece behind her, bringing another hand towards Visenya’s face. The smack resounds in Visenya’s mind, her inner dragon roaring at the offense. Her skin heats up as her emotions grow unstable. 

The smell of rope being singed fills the air, the binds holding Visenya loosening, however the rope is too thick to immediately burn off. When the woman’s hand makes contact with Visenya, she screams in pain and immediately recoils, tenderly touching her burned hand. The injury doesn’t stop her though. Instead she moved onto Geralt, yelling something in her foreign tongue. 

“My eldar speech is rough, I only got part of that.” the man sarcastically quips. The woman dances around Visenya, refusing to even look at her. 

“Humans, shut up!” she spits, glaring at the man. He then replies to her in the same language, using that same sarcastic tone. 

“Do you wanna die right now?” she says, her tone more hostile than before. By this point she’d moved so she was directly across from the man in blue.

“As opposed to later?” Geralt venomously yells, once against trying to loosen the restraints. While partially singed, the rope is incredibly durable. 

She swiftly kicks the mystery man in the gut, simultaneously the man with the lute breaks another string. She then moves around to Geralt

“Leave off!” Geralt yells at the woman. “He’s just a bard.” he finishes. She responds with a punch to Geralt’s face, a third string breaking.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe.” she says, fourth string

“Everything you touch, you destroy.” another punch to the face, and the final string is broken. The man with the lute then proceeds to break the instrument over his knee as the woman finishes Geralt off with one more blow to the face. 

“You hide in your golden palace. You beat a bound man, too scared to even look him in the eye!” 

“Do you like my palace? Hmm?” she replies, maneuvering back to Geralt. She lowers herself to his level, grasping his chin in her hands. “Does it live up to the tales you humans tell?” she asks. Geralt responds with a head butt. The force knocks the woman to the ground and she begins coughing profusely, unable to stand up.

“Haha! Take that pointy!” the man yells. “W-wait what’s wrong with her?” the man worriedly asks once the coughing and wheezing doesn’t cease.

“She’s sick.” someone replies, two more figures entering the room. A man with blonde hair and a… goat standing upright.

“I’ve seen it all.” Visenya mutters to herself, ashen brows raised towards her hairline. Her mouth is turned downwards, watching the...creature enter the room. 

“Oh and who’s this?” the man asks. The blonde figure moves to the woman profusely coughing on the ground. 

“He’s Filavandrel, King of the Elves.” the goat-man replies, rushing to the other side of the woman. Visenya snorts to herself.

“One hell of a kingdom, even better subjects too.” Visenya mutters under her breath. Filavandrel responds with a piercing glare towards Visenya, but she simply snarls at him, baring her teeth at him like an animal. The blood she spit from her mouth earlier stains her mouth deep red, making her look more like a wild animal rather than human. 

“Not a king. Not by choice.” he says, taking the pack the goat-man gave to him. He turns his attention to the woman and gently picks up her arms. Her hands are bright red, small blisters forming where Visenya had burned her.

“How did you get burned?” the man asks, his voice so quiet Visenya had to strain herself to hear, despite their close proximity. 

“The girl burnt my hand when I touched her.” she replies, looking past him to scowl at Visenya. Geralt looks at her briefly, his brows furrowed and eyes squinted. His gaze soon switches back to their captors.

“You mean you can do that?” the man to her left exclaims, wiggling around in his spot. Visenya pointedly ignores the man.

“You were stealing for them.” Geralt says. The goat whipped his head around towards Geralt. 

“I felt for them. They were forced out of Dol Blathanna.” he says. 

“Forced out? No they chose --” the man begins, sounding as confused as Visenya felt, although for different reasons probably. She has no idea what an elf is, and even less what this goat creature could be identified as.

“Do you know anyone who would willingly leave their home? To starve? To have a Sylvan steal for them?” Filavandrel interrupts, he then turns his attention back to the elven woman. “Touruviel, no one was supposed to get hurt.” he scolds her. 

“What’s three humans in the ground when countless elves have died.” she responds, her voice lacking the fire it held previously. 

“Two humans.” Geralt rebuttals. “And you can let them go.” 

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing.” Filavandrel replies, standing from his position, moving towards them. “The humans will attack. Many will die… on both sides.” he spits, moving to stand in front of Geralt. 

“The lesser evil.” Geralt gripes, obviously unamused by the current events. “No matter what you choose you’ll come out bloody and hating yourself. Trust me. “ Geralt says, conviction behind every word. 

Visenya continues to stare straight ahead, not looking at anything in particular. Flashes of Blaviken enter her mind, but she forcibly pushes them away. 

Filavandrel simply shakes his head, he kneels before Geralt. “I can’t. And this is necessary.” he replies, leaning over to unsheathe a dagger. 

“I understand.” Geralt says. “As long as you understand it won’t be long before you join me.”

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil.” Filavandrel says. “Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.”

“Chaos is the same it’s always been, the humans just adapted better.”

“You say adapt, and I say destroy.”

“You are choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your own ear to spite your face.”

“Do you think this is about pride?” Rage simmers under the surface of his words, the rage barely kept in check. “My elders worked with humans and got robbed of everything they had. And when they fought back, they were slaughtered. “The Great Cleansing,” humans call it. I call it digging a mass grave for everyone I loved. And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… our babies fertilizer for their grain. I don’t want to bury anyone else.”

He pauses, his voice turning more somber.  
Like tiny flares, memories flash into Visenya’s mind: Running around The Red Keep when she was a child; tightly holding onto the skirt of her mother’s dress; reading her any book she could find after she gave birth to Aegon and was bedridden for nearly a year. She can almost smell The Red Keep, a cacophony of floral from the gardens, incense trickling through the windows, and the musk from ancient books. 

“I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I’m Filavandrel of the edge of the world.”

There’s a pause, everything in the room growing still. Visenya moves her gaze to her left, looking towards Filavandrel who is still sitting in front of Geralt.

His face can only be described as defeated. His silvery blue eyes are dull and dead, a stark difference to the glittering brightness they probably used to burn with. They look more like a foggy sky, the crystalline blue sky muddled by dirt and pollution. His lips are pulled into a thin line, lines embedded in his forehead and around his mouth. His cheeks are sunken in as well, dirt spotting his sun kissed skin. 

“I understand.” Her voice is raw, why is it so raw? “When I was six, my family was killed in a rebellion. My mother and siblings were murdered, and my father fell in battle. The savage who killed my mother was pardoned and the killer of my father became king. Neither suffered any consequences. In fact, the bodies of my brother and sister were wrapped in cloaks in the color of their killer to be presented to the new king as a token of loyalty,” 

It’s strange, speaking about past events outloud and remembering each detail so vividly. She’s always known their fate, the sound of her mother’s screams keeping her up in the middle of the night, the sound of her skull being crushed haunting even the sweetest dreams. 

“I was raised in a foreign country by a family not my own. But I adapted.” 

Filavandrel moves from his spot in front of Geralt to instead kneel before Visenya. She manages to wiggle her hands from the partly burnt rope, grasping Filavandrel’s hand in her own. He recoils in shock but doesn’t pull away, his eyes locked on Visenya.

“I never forgot my dead and neither should you.” she continues in a much softer tone than before. “But I adapted,” Visenya says, looking Filavandrel directly in the eye. “And you can too.” 

He simply continues to stare at her, his eyes boring deep inside her own. An air of hopelessness and sorrow surrounds him, his light blue eyes are more ancient than his youthful face should allow. And he’s beautiful, despite how malnourished and dirty he is, dressed in rags that are ill fitting on his scrawny form. She can see past all of that and visualize the former glory he used to possess before everything came crashing down. 

“I can’t.” he says. “If my people come down from these mountains, that would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us. Pariah’s from half-blood children.” he fiercely exclaims. 

“Then go somewhere else.” Geralt interrupts. “Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans that you are more than what they fear you to be.” he finishes. Filavandrel releases himself from Visenya’s grasp, moving back to Geralt.

“Like you, Witcher?” 

“I have learned to live with them. So that I may live” Geralt simply replies. The woman stands from her sitting position, moving over to them.

“Please my king. There are others. A new generation. Evellian who wish to fight!” the woman nearly shouts, burning passion lacing each word. “Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now” she finishes. Filavandrel leans over, grasping the hilt of his dagger once more. 

“Wait!” the Sylvan exclaims, grabbing onto Filavandrel’s shoulder.

“Torque, stand aside.” Filavandrel exclaims, jerking his shoulder out of the Sylvan's grasp.

“The Witcher could’ve killed me. But he didn’t. He’s different, like us.” the Sylvan finishes. Filavandrel simply shoves Torque away with his shoulder, staring intently at Geralt, his eyes occasionally flickering back to Visenya. 

“If you must kill me… I am ready. But the Sylvan’s right.” Geralt intervenes. “Don’t call me human.” he holds his head up to expose his neck to the elves. Filavandrel moves to the other side, directly across from Visenya, holding up the dagger high in the air. Visenya’s eyes squeeze shut, not wanting to watch Geralt and their third companion be butchered. Like lightning, the dagger flies through the air and a sharp _crack_ rings in the air. The ropes binding their arms loosens and falls to the ground. Visenya cracks one eye, then slowly the next. 

“Oh good, we're not dead. Love it when I do that.” 

##  **o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o**

“That was a nice touch, the whole ‘I know how you feel’ thing.” The man mutters to Visenya, a lopsided grin resting on his face. His floppy brown hair is disheveled, pieces of it sticking to his forehead due to sweat. Some blood spills from the corner of his mouth, where the elven woman hit him - multiple times. His bright eyes look at Visenya like a puppy would look at a child, wide-eyed and full of wonder. “Really sets a vulnerable tone.” he finishes, strumming the new lute Filavandrel had gifted him to replace his now broken one. 

Geralt is a few steps away from them, gathering his weapons and other items the elves took when they captured him. Despite not looking at them and giving no indication he’s listening, Visenya knows he is. His attention seems too intently focused on the pack in his hands. 

Visenya simply rolls her eyes at the man, moving across the room to retrieve her possessions. As she passes him, Geralt nods his head in acknowledgment but says nothing. His eyes are scrutinizing her face like she’s a locked box that he’s attempting to unravel. Not that Visenya can condemn him for his curiosity, only moments ago she revealed a piece of her life in Westeros. However, Geralt was merciful enough to not vocalize his inquiries and for that, she is grateful. 

“I do believe this belongs to you.” Filavandrel stands behind her, a familiar longsword in his hands, offering her the blade. Visenya grasps it, the cool metal of the hilt a stark contrast to her warm skin. The silver dragon design coils around the hilt, the gleaming red gemstones set in the design imitating two draconic eyes peering into Visenya’s soul. The blade makes a soft shing as it’s slowly unsheathed. The smooth metal glistens in the light as the soft sunbeams reflect off it. She takes her time intently inspecting the blade, memorizing each slight imperfection from the extensive battles it’s seen. 

“A dragon on the hilt, an interesting touch,” he notes, watching Visenya tracing the details of the blade with her eyes. Filavandrel notes the reverence in her eyes, often not seen in an untrained soldier with a sword. 

“A gift from a friend,” Visenya answers his unasked question, eyes moving to meet his. His gaze is as intense as it was before, however, the delicate smile resting on his face eases any discomfort. His eyes move to Visenya’s cloak, torn from where Touruviel had ripped it when Visenya was bound. Her hand follows his eyes, feeling the ribbon of the cloak with the embroidered wolf. It limply dangles from her shoulder area, the damage far beyond anything Visenya’s skill could fix, at least to make it appear as it was before. 

“I am sorry about your cloak.” he apologizes, guilt flooding his facial expressions. Visenya simply shakes her head, hand dropping back to her side. 

“It’s fine, could've been worse.” Visenya shrugs her shoulders, not sure what else to say. 

“Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that, while the weather is comfortable during the day, the nights are cold - too cold to go without proper supplies.” he rebuttals. His concern for her comfort moderately amuses Visenya. Her lips faintly turn upwards, not a full smile, but enough to show her gratitude towards Filavandrel. 

“I don’t find myself getting cold these days,” Visenya answers, her voice softer than the hints of sunlight flooding the room. A stark contrast to the severe tone she’d used moments ago towards Touruviel. 

An amused expression snakes itself onto Filavandrel’s face, his soft blue eyes alight with humor and an upward curve of his lips. “Even so, I feel I should still apologize on Touruviel’s behalf. She can be overly zealous concerning her convictions.” Filavandrel replies, his tone apologetic. Before he can continue with needless apologies, Visenya reaches her hand out to grasp his own, cutting him off. 

“You don’t need to apologize. Your people have seen the worst humanity has to offer.” Visenya remarks eyes quickly darting to Touruviel who’s been watching Visenya intently, hands ghosting on her dagger as Visenya makes physical contact with Filavandrel. Her gaze moves back to him as she removes her hand from his. “She holds an explosive passion for her people, perhaps you could learn a thing or two from her.” Visenya teases, her words lacking any bite to them. A hearty chuckle leaves Filavandrel’s mouth, the humor returning to his eyes.

By this point Geralt and his companion have walked through the doorway to leave, Geralt awkwardly hanging by the exit watching Visenya, not attempting to be subtle. In his hands, he holds a pack that distinctly resembles hers. 

“Perhaps so.” he muses after his laughter silences. Noticing where her gaze is, Filavandrel turns towards the exit, holding his arm out to Visenya, offering himself as an escort. She delicately weaves her arm around his elbow, a nonverbal cue for them to move forward. 

“If I thought I could, I’d point you in the direction of my aunt, Daenerys. From the information I’ve been given, the people have taken to calling her the Breaker of Chains. Her army and three dragons would make for a worthy ally to your cause and a fearsome enemy to your oppressors.” Visenya absentmindedly says as they get closer to the exit. Upon closing the distance between them, Geralt tosses Visenya’s pack towards her, which her free hand catches with ease.

“Queen Calanthe would be cowering in her palace.” Filavandrel muses in a light-hearted tone. “However from your phrasing and previous information, I gather this aunt is somewhere my people can’t reach,” he adds, taking note of her slightly crestfallen tone. 

“Your assumption is correct.” Visenya plainly replies, staring straight ahead. Her thoughts once again wander home. The desire she’d felt to sail east had burned like ice in her veins upon hearing about the return of dragons due to Daenerys. The only thing keeping her was the loyalty she’d felt to Ned Stark and by extension - Robb and the northerners. A small part of her wonders how different things would’ve been if she had left, sailed to Slaver's Bay and never looked back, joining her Aunt in war as opposed to the North. Would she still become food to the crows, or be covered in glittering jewels worthy of a dragon princess. Would she don glorious plate armor, the design similar to her own father’s? These distant thoughts matter little, Visenya made a conscious choice to stay, and in turn die, in Westeros.

While Visenya was too busy lost in her own mind, Filavandrel had guided her out of the building the elves made their sanctuary, far away from bigoted humans. The natural crevices in the walls act as windows, allowing for natural sunlight to stream into the hall. The sun is in the beginning stages of setting, creating a warm glow, making the beings in the vicinity appear ethereal and surreal. Visenya’s eyes trace the faint halo above Geralt’s head, the sun reflecting off his white hair beautifully. 

Beautiful; not a word Visenya would think to use to describe Geralt, but it fits.

Geralt and his companion wander ahead of them, the Witcher never more than three steps from her. It warmed Visenya’s heart, that despite hardly knowing her, he felt the need to protect her - something Visenya doesn’t doubt he’d be easily capable of. Despite the elves vastly outnumbering them, they were starving and Geralt is highly trained and they were starving.

The elves they pass watch them warily, most wearing vicious sneers on their faces, keeping a scrutinizing eye on the humans. A few of the elves reach to grasp their weapons, preparing themselves for a fight. The floppy-haired man carefully watches his surroundings, his expression giving away his nerves as he worries his bottom lip. Geralt seems completely calm - if he is aware of their hostility, he remains unbothered. But if Blaviken was any indication of his treatment, hostility is something he’s very familiar with. 

The closer they get to the exit, the brighter the sunlight grows, the elves becoming more frequent until eventually, they reach what seems to be the main entrance. Filavandrel pulls his arm away from Visenya’s and moves towards the front of the group. He opens the door, motioning for Geralt to move through. He mutters lowly to Geralt, the witcher replying with a simple grunt. Next through is the floppy-haired man, nodding in acknowledgment at Filavandrel. Visenya’s gaze locks onto Touruviel, who’d been stalking behind them, her razor-sharp gaze locked on Visenya, who offers the woman a small smile, attempting to diffuse the elf’s rage. Touruviel responds with a sneer, clutching her injured hand that had been wrapped in bandages. She spits something at Visenya in her native tongue, lacing the words with venom, but makes no hostile movements. 

“Perhaps the finest thing to come from this is making your acquaintance.” Filavandrel’s words pull Visenya’s attention back to him. He’s still standing by the door, arms outstretched towards her. A beaming smile rests on his face, his eyes no longer weighed down by the responsibilities that were thrusted upon him - at least for the moment, making his timeless face appear more youthful. It’s so infectious Visenya can’t help but return it. She moves towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder as she passes. 

“I’m flattered, your grace.” Visenya quips, light joking lacing the formality. He raises his eyebrows at her joke but does nothing else. She moves past the door with a hand still on Filavandrel, feeling the fresh air hitting her face. She turns to face him, his body moving like a magnet to match her. “About what Touruviel said earlier about a new generation wanting to fight back,” she remarks, Filavandrel opens his mouth to interrupt, but Visenya pushes on before he can. “You can count me in. It would be an honor to fight alongside your people.” she finishes. The light expression on his face instantly shifts into disbelief, his eyes, however, look at her with an admiration that wasn’t present before.

“You shall be the first ally I call upon,” he claims, managing to regain his composure. Visenya responds with a beaming smile. Her golden eyes - beaming with delight - could rival the sun on the hottest summer day. She leans forward, placing a delicate kiss on his cheek. 

“I promise you, my life is eternally richer by meeting you,” she tells him, and she means it. “Until we meet again Filavandrel,” she adds, before releasing her grip and moving towards Geralt and his companion. Geralt is watching with a neutral expression and his arms crossed over his chest. His companion’s composure is the exact opposite, watching with wide eyes, trying to take in every detail of the scene before them. Unknowingly to Visenya, he is planning his next ballad, based on what unfolded before him. She moves towards them, not stopping once she reaches them but just continues forward. Geralt and his companion follow suit, however, the man rushes forward until he’s keeping pace with Visenya. 

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure to formally meet my lady,” he comments, dashing to stand in front of Visenya. She pauses her movement as the man kneels before her, grasping her hand in his own. “Julian Alfred Pankratz, but you may call me Jaskier,” he says as he attempts to pull her hand towards his lips but Visenya jerks away before he can. 

“Jane.” she plainly replies, hoping to not encourage the man further. Either he doesn’t get the hint, or he decides to disregard it.

“I am but a humble bard blinded by the beauty of the woman before me…” he begins but is interrupted by Geralt, who is a few steps behind Visenya.

“Leave her, Jaskier,” he demands. His eyes are locked on the man in question, his ashen brows furrowed and lips pulled in a tight line. 

“Perhaps the lady would like to hear a ballad, each line inspired by her beautiful golden eyes.” Jaskier continues, completely ignoring Geralt. Visenya sighs in annoyance, staring straight ahead. She side-eye's Jaskier, sending a chilly glare his way before continuing to move, albeit at a faster pace than before hoping to get ahead of the persistent bard. Similar to when Geralt demanded Jaskier to leave her alone, he chooses to ignore Visenya’s cold reception of him. The soft sounds of a lute begin to resound in the area when Jaskier starts singing a soft ballad, the song lyrics thinly veiled references about Visenya. 

Geralt moves up until he’s walking beside Visenya, leaving the bard in the back. His lips still pulled into a tight line, eyes narrowing in concentration as he stares ahead. There is a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, that grows more apparent the louder Jaskier’s singing becomes. His jaw is clenched so tightly, Visenya could swear a few of his veins have popped. A slight smirk tugs itself onto Visenya's face as she continues to watch his irritation grow. Out of the corner of his eyes, Geralt notices Visenya’s amusement. 

“Something funny?” he questions, his deep voice closely resembling a growl. Visenya’s gaze moves from Geralt’s face to the rolling fields ahead of them. The soft crunch of the grass beneath her feet is a stark contrast to Jaskier’s incessant singing. A soft giggle bubbles from her mouth, her hand immediately coming up to her lips to stifle the sound. But the damage has been done. Instead of looking at her out of the corner of his eyes, he turns to face her head-on. She shakes her head, unable to silence her laughter. All the while, Geralt continues to stare at her. The only sign of his amusement is the slight twitch in his furrowed brows. 

“It’s nothing. I just forgot how vexed you always seem to be.” Visenya muses, after managing to silence her laughter. His face relaxes as her words sink in, a single brow rising in questioning. 

“This is the second time we’ve encountered each other.” he points out, a teasing undertone hidden in his gruff voice. 

“Then it would seem you’ve made an impression, Geralt of Rivia,” Visenya claims, not missing a beat. She turns her head to meet his gaze for a split second, a teasing grin resting on her lips, amber eyes alight with mischief. A simple grunt is all Visenya gets in response to her banter.

A moment of silence passes between the two of them. By this point, Jaskier’s singing has ceased and instead, he opted to idly strum his new lute, silent for the first time since Visenya met him. The sky is a beautiful blend of vivid oranges and reds. Fluffy white clouds conceal the majority of the sun, causing the rays that peek through the clouds to appear more concentrated. Visenya can’t help but stare, her face alight with childlike wonder at the sky being so beguiling and surreal, looking akin to a painting rather than a natural cause. Geralt sneaks a glance at Visenya out of the corner of his eye. 

“So my fair friends! Where to now?” Jaskier exclaims, rushing to stand in between Geralt and Visenya - his brief silence over. His lute is slung over his shoulder, his face stuck in a puppy dog state. He throws his arms over their shoulders, however, Geralt swiftly shoves Jaskier off of him, continuing forward at a more rapid pace than before. 

“That depends, where are you planning to head off to.” Visenya inquires, side-eyeing Jaskier once again. A beaming smile breaks out on his lips, his baby blue eyes nearly as beaming as the brightest star. 

“Well my lady, I will need to head back to the inn in Posada to gather my things, then perhaps I was thinking about going to Venngerburg. Who knows what the capital could offer a bard like me!” Jaskier exclaims, removing his arm from her shoulder, opting to instead practically dance around her, twirling in front of Visenya, finishing his movements by smoothly kneeling to the ground and brandishing a single flower. It’s a delicate wildflower, it’s petals a vivid red that blends with the sunset above it. Appearing as if the same artist that painted the sky dotted the field with flowers.

“Perhaps the lady would care to join me?” he asks, offering the flower to her. Visenya’s eyes flicker to Geralt momentarily before moving back to Jaskier. His eyes are hopeful as they dart across her features, attempting to discern her reaction. After a moment of contemplation, she grabs the flower from his outstretched hand.

“Perhaps the lady would like to make sure she is on the other side of the continent,” Visenya replies, mimicking Jaskier’s tone. She glides past him, placing the flower behind her ear. Jaskier stays frozen in his position, his brain not fully registering the turn of events. 

She briskly moves towards Geralt to match his pace once again. The only acknowledgment he shows her is a quick glance at her before returning his attention forward. After a few moments, Jaskier manages to gather his bearings and moves to walk behind the duo. The three of them continue in silence. With no conversation acting as a distraction, Visenya finds her thoughts wandering. The elves had struck a nerve in her, their tragic fall from grace too similar to Visenya’s own house's demise. Injustice appeared to run rampant in this world - similar to Westeros. Despite being reborn with fire magic, Visenya still finds herself helpless to do anything to stop it. It was almost better when she couldn’t do anything at all. 

o0o

Eventually, they reach the main road - a brown mare that Visenya recognizes from Blaviken as Geralt’s - is patiently waiting on the side of the road. It snorts and shakes its head as Geralt approaches. He places his hand on its head, gently petting the horse as he softly speaks to it. It’s quite possibly the most tender Visenya has ever seen Geralt act. The sweet smile that had crept onto her face immediately disappears as she notices Jaskier approaching her. Before he has a chance to begin talking, Visenya throws a glare his way. 

“Don’t,” she says before moving towards Geralt. By this point, Geralt is guiding the mare towards the road. Once again, she takes her place beside him. The sound of a lute smacking against a surface alerts Visenya that Jaskier is following. 

“So what now?” Visenya asks Geralt as they wander aimlessly down the road. 

“Leaving.” Geralt mutters.

“Off to bigger and better adventures?” Visenya teases, nudging Geralt with her shoulder, a sly smirk on her face. He snorts in reply, unmoved by Visenya’s attempt to lightly push him. 

“Something like that,” he replies, a hint of a smile on his grim face. “And you?” he asks, his gaze meeting her own. Visenya sighs, not having a clue what her next course of action should be. 

“Well, my cloak is ruined so I’ll need to get it fixed. Which means I’ll need coin, which also means I need to get a job. Maybe the inn has an idiot that needs their gold relieved from their pouch.” she wistfully replies.

“I do!” Jaskier exclaims from the back. Geralt and Visenya stop and turn to look at Jaskier. His arm is raised in the air, a giddy expression lighting up his face. He swiftly lowers his hand upon gaining their attention. He stands up straighter, attempting to smooth out his clothes. “I mean - I might possibly have a job for you my lady Jane,” he adds, trying to keep his voice level and tone nonchalant. 

“Really?” Visenya asks, an amused look on her face as she raises a single eyebrow, watching the man expectantly. 

“Truly,” Jaskier replies, running to close the distance between them. “I find myself in need of a bodyguard of sorts if you will. A bard of notoriety such as myself will need the highest security gold can buy.” he finishes, running his hands through his already messy hair. Geralt snorts, nudging his horse to continue moving forward, leaving Visenya and Jaskier. Visenya momentarily glances at Geralt’s retreating figure before returning her attention to Jaskier. 

“I’ve never heard of you before,” she notes, scrutinizing Jaskier’s face, trying to see if his offer had any double meanings. 

“I assure you, my lady, I’m up and coming. Before you know it, kings and queens everywhere will be begging for me to perform at their parties!” Jaskier exclaims, wrapping his arm around Visenya’s shoulder as he leads her down the road - the same direction Geralt went. “Which means - should I acquire any rivals or perhaps trouble during my travels - I will need someone with a very large sword at my back.” he continues. Visenya once again snorts, watching Jaskier from the corner of her eyes. 

“Fine.” she relents. His eyes widen in surprise momentarily at her agreeance to his offer. “But there’s going to be some rules.” she sternly finishes, narrowing her eyes at him to get her point across. 

“Anything.” he quickly exclaims, with a large smile on his face. With the fluidity of a practiced warrior, Visenya shoves her elbow into Jaskier’s side. The bard crumbles to the ground, moaning in pain as he holds onto his right side, attempting to ease the pain.

“Don’t touch me,” she says, continuing down the road.


	7. Nightwraiths and Impulsive Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty then. So here’s the thing, it was not my original intention for things to get steamy, it just happened alright and I refuse to be held accountable for my own actions! Also, I’ve never really written anything mildly related to smut so my apologies if this is awkward and weird. I’m trying okay!

“Two rooms please,” The man working behind the bar moves his gaze to Visenya, an oily grin snaking its way onto his face. He’s a short, chubby man with beady brown eyes that focus on her too intently, lingering on her chest area.. His mousy brown hair is greasy and slicked back, an unsuccessful attempt to hide his bald patches, it would seem. The longer he looks at her, his grin creeps wider and wider until Visenya can see his teeth, the ones still in his mouth at least. Majority are blackened while the whitest of them are yellow and the stench of something rotting hits her nose.

He pulls out a heavy book from behind the counter, slamming it on the bar, faintly humming as he thumbs through the pages. With each page turn, he makes a show of licking his fingers, eye raking up and down Visenya as he does before moving his eyes down to the page.

“Looks like we only got one,” he says. His eyes peer up at Visenya, a grin sleazier than the last, if possible. “However, I’m sure I could arrange for somewhere else...like my room perhaps. Free of charge of course,” Visenya’s jaw tightens as she rolls her eyes, slamming a few pieces of gold on the counter with more force than necessary. The rat of a man jumps a bit in surprise, sliding the coins towards him with shaky hands.

_Men are the same no matter where you go._

“I’ll just take the room, along with some drinks for me and my friend,” Visenya says, nodding her head towards Jaskier, who’s sitting at a table nervously fumbling with his lute. The man grumbles under his breath while putting away the room ledger, replacing it with an old rusty key. She grabs it and moves towards Jaskier, taking a seat across from him.

“Oh, there you are! Any luck?” Jaskier says upon noticing her. In response she throws the rusty key on the table, untrapping the sheath of her blade and resting it beside her. “Just one?”

“It was all they had,” she says. A barmaid approaches their table, two drinks in hand. She sets them on the table and quickly scurries away before either of them could so much as glance at her. As soon as the drinks touch the table, Visenya grabs one of the cups and takes a large gulp, the ale leaving behind a slight numbing sensation as it flows down her throat. It’s not the smoothest ale she’s had, but also not piss poor swill. 

“Well, I’m sure we can make it work,” Jaskier says.

Visenya just grunts in response, throwing her ale back and finishing it off. She holds a hand up to gain the attention of a barmaid that is currently bustling around the tavern like a rat. A moment later she swings back to their table, wiping her hands onto her dingy and stained apron.

“Another ale for me,” Visenya says. The woman nods and rushes off, yelling Visenya’s order at the man behind the bar, returning a moment later with a full mug of ale. She places it in front of Visenya and turns to leave, however before she can, Visenya slips a gold coin in one of her deep pockets. 

“Ah, I knew you had a heart somewhere in there, Jane,” Jaskier says. His tone is light and teasing as he places his lute in the chair beside him. He takes a drink from his ale and promptly begins to sputter and cough, putting it down as quickly as he picked it up.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She hides her smirk behind her mug as she slowly sips her drink. Amusement dances in her amber eyes as Jaskier continues to cough for the next few seconds. 

“Don-- don’t think, I didn’t see you slip that coin into her pocket,” Jaskier says, smacking his hand against his chest a few times before his breathing returned to normal. He sighs in relief and pulls out his water skin, taking a large gulp from it.

“So? It wasn’t like it was mine,” she says, raising a single eyebrow at Jaskier. His brows furrow and he purses his lips, before suddenly his eyes widen and he frantically begins to pat his pockets. 

“You took my coin pouch!” he yells, pointing his finger accusingly at her. “I can’t believe you would do that to me, what if we were to get separated and I needed to get food so I don’t starve to death? What would you do then, Jane? Hmm. Bet you didn’t think about that!”

Visenya turns her attention away from Jaskier’s ranting, scanning the current occupants in the bar. There’s the usual hunters and rangers, people traveling from one place to another, and then the workers. Her attention is captured however, when someone new enters the inn. Long snow-white hair, a bulky stature that could intimidate a giant, and two swords strapped to his back. 

Geralt.

He approaches the bar, giving his order to the rat behind the counter, and she imagines him using a harsh tone, his words clipped and cold. He sits down on a bar stool, folding on himself as he lowers his elbows onto the counter. His position is the perfect spot, allowing everyone in the room to be visible to him, while staying hidden in the shadows himself. 

Visenya's eyes lock onto him and as his eyes move through the room, their gazes meet. The bartender timidly places Geralt’s drink in front of him before scurrying off to the other end. She offers him a sly smirk, raising a single eyebrow at him, daring him to come over. 

And he does not disappoint. 

With an ale in one hand, he stands from the bar and starts to walk towards Visenya and Jaskier's table. The crowds part for him, granting the intimidating Witcher a wide berth. And for a second, the thought of traveling with Geralt and never having to deal with people’s bullshit crosses Visenya’s mind. But then her eyes rest on Jaskier - who is still ranting about his coin pouch - and in that moment she knows she couldn't leave him. This idiot wouldn’t last a day without her.

“Geralt!” Visenya says. Jaskier stops mid rant, moving his gaze to the approaching Witcher. 

“Oh yes! This is perfect, brilliant even.” Jaskier says, his tone bursting with excitement. “Whatever grand quest Geralt is about to complete is going to make a fantastic song!” “Jaskier, do me a favor.” Visenya says, eyes not moving an inch from Geralt.

“Of course, anything My Lady.”

“Shut up,” Visenya says just in time for Geralt to reach their table. “If I didn’t know any better, Geralt of Rivia, I’d think you were following me,” she says, granting him a sly smile, a stark contrast to the frosty glare she wore moments ago. Geralt grunts in response, a hint of a smile hidden under his stony facade, and pulls out the chair beside Visenya.

“Jaskier.” Geralt says, nodding his head towards the bard. Something glinting in the light gains Visenya’s attention, her eyes drawn to one of Geralt’s swords. Resting on the hilt of it is a familiar broach, with a sword cutting through the middle of it, surrounded in gems. 

Renfri’s broach. 

Her smile dims a touch, the mischievous expression turning bleak and hollow. She hasn’t thought of Renfri since Blaviken, unwilling to think about any of it. Visenya managed to tuck thoughts of Renfri in the same box she kept all of her memories of Westeros, locked deep enough away to continue on with her life. But seeing the broach that belonged to her - something so intricately tied with Renfri and her history - is like the box being thrown open and it’s contents spilling to the ground. 

“You kept it,” Visenya says, voice barely above a whisper. Geralt looks at the broach then back at Visenya. Neither of them say anything, not that Visenya trusts herself to form a coherent sentence.

“The broach? Should I know about this broach, it seems like a big deal. Jane I didn’t know you liked jewelry?” Jaskier interrupts, pulling Visenya from her reverie, firing off his questions like a hyperactive rabbit.

And just like that the box is locked again, it’s contents neatly folded inside.

“It’s nothing.” Visenya quickly answers with a stiff tone, turning back to her drink and taking an even larger swig than before. 

“Well, it doesn’t seem like nothing.” Jaskier rebuttals and Visenya glowers at him, not ready to deal with anything that happened in Blaviken.

“Leave it, Jaskier.” Geralt says, leveling a firm glare at him, eyes demanding for him to drop it. 

“Fine, Fine I know a touchy subject when I see it. But how did you two meet anyway? Back during the whole Filavandrel situation you two seemed well acquainted.” Jaskier asks, taking a small drink of his ale, and it brings a twinge of amusement to Visenya to see him struggling to swallow it.

“You’d think by now this one -” he points over at Visenya, “would tell me but no, I’m not worthy of her tales. Haven’t even gotten her last name.” 

“Blaviken,” Visenya answers, managing to make her voice even and strong, laced with her usual ice. “And I do have a last name, you’re just not privy to that information,”

“Truly, Blaviken? Wasn’t half the town burnt to a crisp? Were you present when it happened? Do you know what caused the explosion? How could you leave the details of this riveting tragedy from me!?” He exclaims, enthralled by the story he already weaved in his mind.

“No, I wasn’t there,”

Her eyes glaze over, grip tightening on the mug in her hand. Images of people burning in a building flash before her eyes, their screams echoing in her head. The smell of burning flesh - the stench still lingering in the depths of her mind - causes her stomach to turn. And she swears that her mug starts to heat up, the ale coming to a vicious boil the longer and longer her mind wanders. Physically she is there, but mentally she’s miles away, until Geralt snaps her back to her body.

“I see you took your own advice about hair oils.” Geralt says, noticing the tight grip on her cup and the haunted look in her eyes. He knows it well, he’s seen it painted on other people’s faces many times. His eyes are locked on Visenya’s hair, braided in an intricate fashion, serculy out of her face. It’s still that same disgusting brown, but not nearly as much of a state as before, the ends much more manageable. A playful smile appears on Visenya’s face, the ghosts of Blaviken disappearing from her mind, and she lightly smacks him on his broad shoulder, not worried about actually hurting the giant of a man.

“Shut up and drink your ale,” she says, gesturing towards the drink the barmaid slipped him earlier. “Why are you here anyway?” she asks as he drinks his ale. 

“A Nightwraith,” he answers, “There’s been one lurking nearby.” 

“Well, I doubt it’s in this inn, so why are you here?” Visenya asks. 

“Nightwraiths only come out at night, so I’m getting a drink.” Geralt says, gesturing to his mug.

“And that you might’ve possibly heard we were here,” Jaskier said, forcing himself into the conversation. “A few men in the town were getting too comfortable and Jane set them straight,” Visenya levels a glare at Jaskier, not liking the implications in his eyes, the accusing words dripping from his smiling lips. He instantly flushes, beginning to nervously play with his sleeves, the confidence there only moments ago nowhere to be seen. 

“What are you implying, Jaskier,” Visenya asks, a thinly veiled threat laced in her words, promises of reintroducing him to her fist if he isn’t careful.

“I’m just saying, this is what… the third time you’ve run into each other and the two of you seem very familiar with each other” he mutters. 

“Jaskier…” Geralt says, utilizing the same tone as Visenya. And she doesn’t doubt that Geralt’s probably already hit the bard too. 

“I didn’t say a word,” His expression is similar to a cat that got the cream, smug with a satisfied glint in his eyes. His eyes slowly move from Geralt to Visenya, back to Geralt then Visenya, before landing on his lute. He picks up the instrument and begins mindlessly strumming it, humming different lyrics quietly as he does.

Geralt rolls his eyes, while Visenya fidgets with one of her daggers.

_Stupid bard._

They idly sit there for a few more minutes and once Geralt finishes his drink, he stands up to leave. 

“Wait Geralt,” Visenya said, grabbing onto his arm, causing him to look down at her. “Let me help you fight the wraith.”

“No,” he said, his tone flat, not even allowing a second to consider the offer.

“Why not?” Visenya presses, refusing to accept no without a reason, her pride rearing its ugly head. Does he think she’s incapable of holding her own in battle, like she’s some damsel in distress?

“It’s too dangerous,” he simply says, pulling his arm free from her grasp and leaving the inn. Visenya huffs in frustration, reaching across the table and swiping Jaskier’s full mug of ale.

When was the last time she got to hit something that could give her a real fight?

“Hey! That’s mine,” Jaskier exclaims, but makes no move to try and take it back. 

“Well I need a drink and I got tired of you sipping on it like it’s some high class wine,” she grumbles, rolling her eyes. Jaskier huffs, but says nothing else. He leans back in his chair and Visenya finishes off his mug. There’s silence surrounding them for a moment, blocking out the intruding tavern ambience

“You really are something else, Jane,” Jaskier says, bringing Visenya’s attention back to him. His eyes are intently watching her, lacking the lightheartedness he usually possesses. Her smile slowly vanishes, meeting Jaskier’s gaze, and not for the first time, Jaskier proves himself more perceptive than most people give him credit for. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, averting her eyes to her hands, tracing the details of the small ring on her finger.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about what you said to Filavandrel,” he says. Visenya’s eyes snap towards Jaskier. She opens her mouth to reply, but Jaskier cuts her off. “But, I won’t push it. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.” 

Visenya’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she tries to form a proper sentence. 

“ I- Thank you,” she finally says. Finishing off the rest of her ale, she grabs the key from the table and stands up, Jaskier mirroring her actions.

Silently, they move across the room towards the stairs to get to the second level. 

“So who’s getting the bed?” Jaskier asks, a hair too close.

“Me,”.

“Or we could share…?” Jaskier suggests.

“Or you can sleep outside in the cold.”

##  **o0o0o0o**

The soft grass gives out underneath the weight of Visenya’s footsteps, leaving behind a trail of her tracks as she quietly moves through the meadow. There’s no sun to guide her, the darkness only allowing for faint shadows and delusions of monsters at every corner. There’s a chill in the air, an ominous feeling creeping up her spine that nearly makes her heave up her dinner. She’s not sure what possessed her to do something this stupid; it could be pride or the need to prove a point. Either way, it’ll probably get her killed one day. 

The townsfolk were more than willing to tell her everything they knew about the wraith plaguing their home, even giving a general location. It’s a few hours past sundown and approximately ten minutes after she saw Geralt exit the town. Armed with a sword and donning her leather armor, the sinking feeling that she’s in over her head sets in, a pit forming in the depths of her stomach. 

But it’s too late to turn back now. 

It’s silent, so much so that Visenya can hear her breathing, the deep inhale and exhale seemingly as loud as a Dothraki screamer. The air is ice cold, so cold it could make Winterfell feel like Dorne. Each breath is clearly visible in the air, the condensation nearly freezing it into small icicles on sight. Her heart speeds up, the ominous feeling that previously felt more like a nagging sensation in the back of her mind is at full power. There’s a tickle in her left ear, the feeling of someone a breath away from her skin. She whirls to the left, and there’s nothing but empty air, and just as she turns away--.

A screech rings in the still air, so piercing Visneya has to cover her ears in fear of losing that ability to hear. She whips her head to the left, keen eyes trying to see through the inky darkness surrounding her, and then she sees it- a glint of silver in the distance, flashing so quickly, it could only be the dangerous dance of one person, Geralt.

Without allowing a moment of hesitation, Visenya draws her blade and charges. There’s a sliver of fear in the back of her mind that she forces away. She’s never fought a wraith - or any monster of any kind, but there’s no turning back now.

The closer she gets, the clearer the noises becomes. She hears the sound of metal clanging together, heavy breathing similar to a snarling wolf, and another scream - this one not as loud as the first one. About 20 feet away, a spectral figure comes into sight, wearing a torn up nightgown, the once pristine white fabric stained red and black. A blackened tongue oozing with dark ichor hangs from its mouth, nearly reaching its spectral feet. A shimmering purple barrier surrounds it as Geralt hacks away at it, moving as if he’s made to fight.

She grabs one of her silver daggers - the first weapon she bought here, still charging at full speed. It leaves her hand, cutting through the air, landing where its heart would be. A clean shot, just like Jon taught her all those years ago, hidden in the Godswood. 

Geralt’s head whips towards Visenya, the distraction allowing for the wraith to drag it’s razor sharp claws across his chest, the leather armor taking the brunt of the damage. He staggers backward, but tosses a vial at the wraith. It explodes on contact and leaves behind a luminous glow in the area. The creature screeches in pain as it flies towards Geralt. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Jane?” Geralt yells, anger evident in his tone as he dodges an incoming attack.

“Helping you!” she replies. She brings her blade up and slices into the creature. The sword passes through it, leaving the wraith unharmed.

“Your sword won’t do anything!” he yells, hitting the wraith with his sword, a line of flames following the swing. “It’s steel, only silver kills monsters.”

“Well fuck me then!” Visenya tosses the sword away, pulling out a second dagger, this one also forged from silver. It leaves her hand and lands in the center of the creature’s forehead, falling to the ground as the shimmering circle around them disappears. The wraith becomes incorporeal again and swipes one of its hands towards Visenya, scratching along her chest.

A howl of pain echoes from her mouth, a burning sensation lights her body on fire, but not the type of fire she’s familiar with. This one is darker and twisted, making her toes curl inwards as it feels like her life essence is being drained. Visenya staggers backward and attempts to gain her footing. However, before she has a chance to recover, it swipes at her again with its other hand, scratching across her chest again, creating an X. With another cry of pain, Visenya falls backward. 

The wraith glides towards her, its scream making her ears bleed. She attempts to stand but doesn’t have the strength, it feels like her body weighs a ton. The closer the wraith gets to her, the faster her heart speeds up, the feeling of impending doom growing stronger. And as it draws closer, on instinct she throws her arm up, an attempt to shield her body from the creature. And as she screams, pain flaring in her body from the simple action, a flash of fire follows her movements. It smacks against the wraith, burning away the rags it wears and the black ichor dripping from it. The creature recoils and shrieks once again, however, before it continues its advance, a sword pierces it from behind. With a final scream, the wraith disappears, leaving a sticky substance behind in its place, that too dissipates after a moment, only leaving behind burning injuries in its wake. 

Silently, Geralt steps in front of Visenya with a hand outstretched towards her. She takes it, his hand is surprisingly cool to touch, a startling contrast to her burning skin. He slings her arm over his shoulder and the two of them begin the trek back to town. On their way past it, Geralt bends down to grab her sword from the ground. 

The walk back to the inn is completely silent, Geralt saying nothing and Visenya wanting to speak, but not knowing what to say. It isn’t until they’re in Geralt’s room, the door firmly shut behind them, that he says anything, or even looks at her.

“You shouldn’t have come.” Geralt says, his voice holding the usual coldness, keeping everyone at arm's length, but contained under his words is a burning anger. He grabs a medicine kit from his pack and walks over to Visenya, a poultice in one hand and bandages in the other. “Take off your shirt.” 

“But I did come,” she says as she took off her leather tunic, leaving on her breast band. Her vision is slightly fuzzy around the edges, but much clearer than it had been in the field. The burning sensation isn’t nearly as intense, but that doesn’t mean it’s healing, in fact the wound looks worse. It’s like when you cut your finger on parchment, the pain doesn’t go away, instead it lingers in the back of your mind, until it finally leaves entirely.

“Yeah and you almost got killed!” he says, aggressively cleaning the deep claw marks that mar her skin, adding to the collection of scars covering her body. She hisses in pain at the contact but does nothing to stop him. She watches his eyes, a storm brewing in them. His mouth is pulled in a tight line with his jaw tightly clenched. His hands held the rag so tightly she could see his veins popping out on his arm. 

“Like that’s the worst thing that could happen! Not that it matters, because I didn’t die but the wraith did. End of story.” She shouldn’t have said that, and she knows it. The second the words fly from her mouth she regrets them, but it’s too late. Her pride is wounded, hurting as much as the claw marks on her chest. 

“Like hell that’s the end of the story. Do you not realize how stupid what you did was?” he snarls, throwing the rag in his hand to the ground, pure unbridled rage in his eyes.

“Who cares, I clearly don’t! Can’t you say thank you and move one,” Visenya exclaims, over this argument the moment it started, but unable to concede and admit fault. She’s too stubborn for that.

And he laughs.

Not a full belly laugh that makes your stomach twist into knots, or the type of laugh that is like the first spring air touching your skin after a year of winter. No, this one is cold and sarcastic and cruel. 

“You want me to thank you? Is that it?” he asks, his eyes wild and crazy, his mouth twisting into a mocking grin. 

“Would that be so bad?” She stands from the bed, pain immediately rearing its hateful head at her, but the anger coursing through her bones overpowers it, blocking out her senses and common sense. 

“Enlighten me then Jane. Why should I thank you, hmm? What did you do in that fight other than distract me,” he asks, raising his eyebrows at her, his eyes egging her on, demanding a response. 

“I helped you, you fucking idiot!” she replies, shoving him with all the strength she could muster. He staggers back just a hair, quickly gaining his footing back.

“And if you died? Would that be helping me? When they had to bury--” 

Smack.

She brings her hand up, cracking it across his face with a clean smack, the noise reverberating around them. And it’s silent, beyond their heavy breathing and the crackling fire. From the force of the blow, Geralt’s head turned left and stays that way for a moment, his left cheek bright red. The shock on his face disappears, like fire melting ice, while Visenya stares at him, unsure of what to do next. Her hand thrums with pain, his face harder than she’d anticipated. 

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” she mutters after a moment of silence. Flashes of Walder Frey and his soldiers, Robb falling dead to the ground, and Visenya’s knees meeting the dirt, only able to cry as bolts pierced her skin. 

They maintain eye contact for a moment, Visenya lost in her thoughts and Geralt trying to digest what she said. And then like the first snow of winter, the broken dam that lets the river flow freely, Geralt breaks the silence.

“Sit down, I still need to wrap your wound.”

In a daze, Visenya sits down as Geralt starts spreading a foul smelling poultice on her wounds, yet she can’t even bring herself to grimace at the smell, too lost in her head. Visenya stares at the wall ahead of her, lost in her own thoughts. A sigh escapes her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Visenya says nervously, biting her bottom lip. “I shouldn’t have come, I don’t know anything about monsters and charged headfirst into a fight without a proper weapon.” A chuckle escapes her throat, the tone self-deprecating and sardonic. 

“I’ve noticed you don’t think too much before acting,” he said, his tone lighter than the anger in it only seconds ago, her apology calming his rage. Visenya snorts, remembering all the times she’d been scolded for her hot-headedness by the Starks - mainly Catelyn and on occasion Jon too. 

“So I’ve been told,” she says. Geralt begins applying the bandages over her wounds to protect them from getting infected. He doesn’t say anything else, but Visenya can hear the questions swirling in his mind. 

“Go on. Ask away all the questions I know you have.” Visenya says. Geralt pauses his actions but continues nonetheless.

“I do have questions, but I know if you wanted me to know the answers, you’d tell me.” Geralt replies. He finishes dressing her wounds and steps away from her. He begins gathering the remaining supplies and places them back into his pack.

“Do you miss her?” Visenya asks, watching Geralt intently. He doesn’t pause his actions, but he does throw her a quick glance. “I mean, you still have her broach. She must’ve meant something.” Visenya ponders aloud. Geralt throws his pack across the room onto a chair. He quickly removes his leather jerkin, expertly undoing on the ties and clasps that keep it in place. He’s left wearing a simple tunic and his sturdy leather pants. He then sits beside Visenya on the bed. 

“I will admit, she had an impact on me.” Geralt says, handing her a water skin. She takes a large drink from it, the cool water refreshing against her dry throat, then Visenya passes the water back to him, wiping at her mouth. 

“I feel like every time I close my eyes to sleep, she’s there. A faint whisper in my dreams that never leaves.” Visenya says, her voice barely above a whisper. Geralt doesn’t reply but continues to watch her, his expression is unreadable. 

“I was gonna leave with her, did ya know?” Visenya says, softly laughing after, tracing the grain in the floorboards. “We were going to take the world by storm, no one safe from our chaos.”

“I’m sorry.” Geralt mutters.

“Don’t be, she was determined to burn down the world. Nothing we could’ve done,” Visenya replies, trying to convince herself more than anything. Her need to destroy those who’ve wronged her led to her downfall, a moral point of no return. It reminds Visenya how fickle someone’s state of sanity is. One wrong move and everything snaps. 

That could’ve been Visenya if not for the Starks.

It could still be her.

And that thought terrifies her.

“How long did you know her?” Geralt asks. 

“Not much longer than you,” Visenya says, snorting obnoxiously. “It seems stupid, being so torn up about the death of someone you’ve only known for three days.” 

“People have done crazier.” Geralt replies. Apprehensively he puts a hand on Visenya’s shoulder as an attempt to comfort her. She accepts it and leans against his touch. Forming a small smile on her face, she looks up at him.

“Like charge into a fight against a wraith unprepared.” she quips.

“Some might say that,” he says. He moves his hand so his arm is wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her closer to his side. 

“Would it surprise you to know I’ve done far stupider?” Visenya asks, her eyes shifting to his wolf medallion, tracing and retracing it. 

“Would you be offended if I say I’m not.” Geralt says. She can feel his gaze on her, so intense it might burn a hole through her.

“I can’t be offended about anything after the stunt I just pulled,” Visenya says. She pulls a centimeter away from Geralt, sitting up to be eye level with him.

Easier said than done, considering how tall he is. 

She rests her hands on top of his shoulders, attempting to balance herself. His eyes follow her every move but he does nothing to stop her. Her eyes trace his face, taking the moment to memorize each curve and scar. His face is angular and sharp, faint white lines dancing across his face. His lips - soft and full, an intoxicating contrast to the sharpness on the rest of his face. From the moment she saw him, Visenya knew that Geralt was attractive. But being this close to him, with his eyes looking at her like they are, now she knows how attractive he is.

“Everyone always told me I was too impulsive,” Visenya says, leaning her weight against Geralt as she swings one of her legs around him, straddling his lap.

“Hmm. And where would they get that idea?” Geralt replies, moving his arms to coil around her waist like a snake tightening around its prey. 

“I have no idea,” Visenya says, moving her face closer to Geralt’s. He doesn’t move towards her, but he doesn’t move away either. His grip around her does tighten, however. She continues until their faces are barely a centimeter apart. They’re so close she can feel his breath fanning on her face as her eyelashes delicately tickle against his skin. The two of them continue to stare at each other, daring the other person to make a move. Her eyes search his - unsure of what she’s looking for, but searching nonetheless. 

There’s a little distance between them.

Until there isn’t. 

Geralt closes the gap between them, pressing his lips against her, like a starving beast that finally found a meal after days of searching. It’s all teeth and tongue, desperation clawing at both of them. His lips are slightly chapped from the biting wind outside, but still so soft. It’s like the first time Visenya wore a dress from silks, drowning in the soft fabric that felt like a million gentle caresses. 

Gods, his lips are softer than they have the right to be.

Her hands move from his shoulders and weave themselves into his hair, lightly tugging as she does. He pulls her closer to his body, the heat radiating from Visenya hotter than any fire. The adrenaline from the fight with wraith returns tenfold, a roaring fire burning away the pain lingering in her chest until there’s nothing but a dull ache left. Visenya can feel herself getting addicted to the sensation of his lips, desperately craving more and chasing his mouth during those few seconds they pull away for air.

On pure instinct, she begins to grind against him in the same rhythm of her ragged breathing, desperate for some sort of friction. His hands that were previously around her waist slide down until he’s gripping both sides of her hips. He starts to guide her movements, clearly well practiced in this department. The sensation elicits soft moans from Visenya that Geralt swallows. 

Geralt breaks the kiss, moving his mouth to her neck, leaving marks wherever his teeth touch. Visenya gasps at the feeling, tugging on his hair harder than before. Geralt growls and continues his assault. A warm feeling inside her continues to grow the longer they stay like this until it’s nearly unbearable. One of her hands untangles itself from his hair, moving to grip his chin. 

She forces his head away from her neck to face her head-on. A predatory grin forms on Visenya's face, the control she holds over him in the moment exhilarating. Usually, Geralt maintains control of a situation, both in combat and in conversation, he’s holding the reins. But in this moment, with his eyes practically begging for her to do something - anything as he tightens his grip on her hips, he’s as helpless as the damsels in Sansa’s stories. His amber eyes appear nearly feral, wild and blown out. His hair is a tangled mess from where Visenya brushed her hands through it, his lips are bruised and swollen, evidence of what just happened between them. 

She continues to grind against him while maintaining her grip on his chin. A series of low grunts escapes his mouth, the sound spurring Visenya on. She quickens her pace and with her hand still in Geralt’s hair, she pulls harder and forces his head upwards to expose his neck. His jaw is clenched, veins in his neck popping out. She leans her face forward, burying her face in his pulse point, leaving trails of phantom kisses leading up to his jawline. She begins to nibble at his jaw, slowly moving towards his lips. She moves her hands onto the tops of his shoulders, leaning most of her weight against him. Geralt leans forward, attempting to connect their lips, but Visenya pulls back. Far enough that he doesn’t reach her, but still close enough that her breath tickles his lips. A low grunt of annoyance leaves his mouth, but he does nothing else.

“Nuh uh uh. Not yet,” she tells him, giving him a grin that shows all her teeth. “You’ve gotta earn it.” His grip on her hips is so tight, Visenya’s sure it’s gonna leave marks. His movements become jerkier and rougher as he guides her hips against his crotch. A pit grows in Visenya’s stomach as she grinds harder against him. A slew of curses leave Geralt’s mouth, but he maintains eye contact with Visenya like he’s entranced. 

“Fuck, Geralt. There you go, that’s right.” Visenya moans, closing her eyes and fully enjoying the sensations. “If it’s this good when you’ve got your clothes on, I can only imagine when you’re not.” she says, fluidly moving with the pace he set. 

“Why don’t you find out,” he grunts, his breathing unsteady. Visenya simply laughs at him, opening her eyes and leaning into him. 

“Not yet, this is only the third time we’ve met. A girl has to maintain some propriety,” She presses her lips against his, slipping her tongue in his mouth, but pulls away before he gets a chance to react. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” Geralt says, attempting to chase her mouth. 

“The door’s over there, I’m sure there’s a nearby brothel that could help you out.” Visenya says. However, before Geralt gets a chance to respond, she digs her fingers into his shoulders. She rubs against him with rigid backward and forward motions, chasing the high that she instinctively knows is so close. She clenches her legs tighter against him as a tingle fills her body, starting from her head down to her toes. Almost simultaneously, a throaty groan leaves Geralt's mouth and he presses his face into the crook of her neck. The two of them slow their movements until neither of them are moving. 

They stay like that for a while, neither of them saying a word. Visenya eventually manages to catch her breath and steady her heart. The adrenaline previously pumping through her diminishes as she gains control of her brain. 

“Stay.” Geralt asks - no demands. His eyes meet hers with the same intensity his gaze always holds, but something softer is mingled with it. 

“Jaskier will know if I don’t come back to the room.” Visenya reminds him. “And I really don’t want to deal with that.” 

“To hell with the bard.” Geralt argues, tightening his grip around Visenya and pulling her closer. 

“You said it, not me.” Visenya quips, leaning forward to meet Geralt's lips again. 


	8. Melancholy and Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Warning!! Emotional Visenya being emotional!!! :D

Silence. Somewhere between dreams and reality, Visenya stirs awake. There’s no crackling fire, birds singing, or steady breathing; it’s dead silent and the air is stale. The room seems colder than last night. It’s not the type of cold that can be staved away with a roaring fire while bundling into a pile of blankets, but the kind that follows a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. And reaching one of her hands out confirms it, the other side of the bed is ice cold, almost as if no one ever occupied it. For a moment she convinces herself last night was a fever dream, a hallucination born from the flesh eating wound she sustained from the wraith, But the ache in her bones and the small love bites wrapping around her body contradict that brief thought. 

She slowly opens her eyes, the crust of sleep that coats her lashes causing them to stick together uncomfortably. Drowsily, Visenya sits up, running her hand over her face, rubbing away any traces of last night. The hairs on her body stand straight up upon feeling the cold air, her breast band the only barrier between air and skin. A deep sigh leaves her mouth as she mentally attempts to piece together her surroundings, everything past foolishing running into the night in a haze, fact and fiction blurring together until it is so intertwined she’d have to spend decades untangling them. 

Looking around the small room there’s no trace of Geralt ever having been here, despite this originally being his room. Not a thing is out of place, besides her discarded armor that lies on the floor from when she haphazardly wrestled it off. While unsurprised, a wave of sadness hits her, a small sliver of her had been hopeful he would stay, even if only for a few minutes. But that feeling quickly gets shoved away, if there’s anything she learned from what happened to Robb when he married Talisa and what she’s seen time and time again, is that love is the death of duty. So like all her other feelings, she tucks it into a small locked box to be forgotten.

“My loveliest and fairest Jane, please consider this your wake up call!” Jaskier exclaims from the other side of the door, knocking obnoxiously as he does. An annoyed groan escapes her mouth, the beginnings of a headache forming. Visenya blindly reaches behind her, grabbing onto the first pillow she touches. With more force than necessary, she throws it, sending the pillow soaring through the air, until it hits the door with a soft thud before falling to the ground.

“Shut up Jaskier,” Visenya yells in a hoarse voice, stretching her arms in front of her as she yawns. The door clicks as it opens and once again as it shuts. There’s a soft patter as Jaskier steps into the room, his footsteps so light he’s almost gliding. Despite being untrained - as far as she knows - Jaskier manages to be lighter on his feet than Visenya could ever dream, something he makes sure to always remind her of. 

“Oh good, you’re awake and wearing clothes...sort of,” Jaskier says, seemingly unbothered by her less than friendly greeting. He’s wearing another one of his overly frivolous outfits - this one a combination of purple and a soft blue - that clearly defines him as a bard. No one else would dare to wear something so ostentatious in a backwater town. He pulls up his sleeves and grabs the chest piece of her armor.

“Now up up up! We have a day of traveling and adventure to start.” Jaskier says, tossing her discarded tunic towards the bed. It hits her in the face as she angrily groans at him, vision still disoriented from sleep. “Quit your groans and moans of protest my dear. Maybe if you didn’t stay up all night with our riveting hero you wouldn’t be so tired.” 

“Do you ever shut up or is that a myth?” Visenya asks, slowly standing from the bed. Her back cracks as she stretches. Her hips are sore from Geralt’s death grip from the night before, a glaring reminder of what transpired between them and just as she thought, discolored bruises in the shape of fingers mar her skin. Jaskier exaggerates an offended gasp, opening and closing his mouth three times like a fish before responding to Visenya. 

“You need to eat some food, missy!” he says, wagging a finger in her direction. He attempts to use a stern tone, but the merry glint in his blue eyes gives away his playful intentions. She throws her tunic over her torso, not bothering with the ties. 

“Have you always had those injuries or are they new? Nevermind, I won’t ask because I don’t want to lose my head.” Jaskier answers his own question, moving towards the door to leave the room, his tone too bright and his footsteps too peppy for her liking. “Get ready to leave and I shall return with a feast for you my lady,” and with that, Jaskier shuts the door behind him. The force of it causes the wall to shake for a moment but quickly stops, taking all noise with him and leaving Visenya in silence. 

With the door shut and the bard gone, Visenya quietly sighs. She lifts up the shirt inspecting the bandages. To no one’s surprise, Geralt expertly wrapped the bandages so they wouldn’t unravel while sleeping and...other activities. They’re slightly discolored but not oozing pus and blood. Carefully in an attempt to not disturb the wound, she unravels the bandages, exposing the semi-fresh cuts to the cool air. Two human-like claw marks drag across different parts of her abdomen. They’re raw and painful to the touch but appear to be healing fine. They’d need to be cleaned before redressing them, but that’s something to focus on after eating. 

She expertly laces her shirt up and begins attempting to sort out her hair. It’s a tangled mess that resembles a mangy wild animal, something that would’ve caused Sansa to faint from shock if she ever saw. The strips of leather she used to tie it back yesterday are tangled with her knotty hair, making it difficult and painful to pull them apart. A grunt that’s a mixture with pain and frustration is released through her nose, similar to a bull getting read to charge. When Visenya is nearly ready to give up, the door clicks twice, once as it opens and again as it closes. 

“Here we go. Some meat, eggs, and potatoes. Oh, and a fresh cup of ale.” Jaskier practically sings, setting the food on a small table in the corner. Upon seeing Visenya attempting to sort out her hair, he rolls his eyes. “Oh, quit that, you’ll tear out all your hair. Let me.” Jaskier glides across the room, swatting away her hands as he pushes her into a chair. With expert hands and minimal pain, he begins weaving the ties out of her hair and brushing out the knots with his fingers. 

“I’m not a child,” Visenya mutters, her face flushed with embarrassment at not being able to manage her own hair. 

“Oh no, of course not! You’re a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword,” Jaskier teases, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “But you’re a big, mean, angry lady with a large sword who’d be bald without me.” 

“I’d defend myself, but considering the state of my hair when we met I don’t think I can in good conscience,” she replies. A small smile forms on her face, the tingling sensation rippling through her body as he plays with her hair. It brings a sense of peace and serenity that’s been void from her life for so long; taking her back to being four, sitting between her mother’s legs as she braided Visenya’s hair, telling her fantastical tales. But also because, despite her best efforts, at some point between their first meeting and today, Jaskier wormed his way into her heart, like a parasite that you grow fond of. He chuckles quietly, a bemused expression on his face. 

“What? What’s so funny?” Visenya asks, unable to put any of her usual bite in her words. She attempts to turn her head to face Jaskier, but he simply swats her head with one of his hands before forcing her head forward with an iron tight grip his soft and uncalloused hands shouldn’t have. 

“You’re much cheerier this morning. Maybe you should spend more time with Geralt...if you know what I mean,” Jaskier says, suggestively wagging his eyebrows at Visenya, mirth filling his eyes. Visenya snorts at his answer, unable to stop her eyes from rolling.

“We didn’t have sex,” Her voice is even and deadpan, not wanting to inflect too much emotion, lest he use that as ammo against her. 

“Sex, trading battle stories, or braiding each other’s hair while gossiping about boys - it doesn’t matter to me! I think this is the longest conversation we’ve had without you threatening me.” Jaskier continues. By this point, he’s managed to unravel all of her unruly hair and began the task of braiding it. 

“I’d pay good gold to see Geralt let someone braid his hair while gossiping about boys,” Visenya says, playing with the ends of the ties on her tunic. Jaskier replies with a snort, twisting another section of her hair into a braid. 

“He seems pretty relaxed with you, maybe try that out the next time we come across our dashing Witcher. He might just let you, free of charge.” 

“ _If_ , Jaskier, if we see Geralt again.” Visenya says, already knowing the direction he’s steering the conversation. 

“Oh please, you may be good in a fight, but you really are naive in social settings aren’t you, Jane?” Jaskier teases. And before she can turn around and hit him so hard he’ll be feeling it for days, he pulls the braid he’s weaving incredibly tight, the force pulling her head back. “Oops, my finger slipped.” 

“Whatever,” she mutters, a scowl on her features, both from annoyance and the pounding pain in her head. 

“Now don’t get all grumpy with me, missy. If there’s one thing I can say without a doubt, is that both you and Geralt are incredibly complicated people, who seem to be very comfortable around each other. It’s only natural things might progress further,” Jaskier continues, taking care to be extra gentle with her hair, lightly running the tips of his nails through her scalp, soothing the headache he created. 

“And what do you possibly know about me?” 

“I know that something terrible has happened to you, something that left you angry and bruised, figuratively and literally. But I also know you care more than you let on, that much is obvious with how you handled Filavandrel.” 

Visenya snorts, rolling her eyes in the process, staring up at the ceiling before gazing directly in front of her, seeing but not really at the same time. 

“Geralt did most of the heavy lifting,” she mutters.

“Oh sure, of course our mighty Witcher did with his reverse psychology, _Kill me, I am ready_ ,” he lowers his voice significantly, attempting to mimic Geralt’s own growly one. “--but the Jane you want everyone to see wouldn’t have empathised with the elves. The Jane you want everyone to see would’ve at least threatened to beat a few of them before we had to drag you out.” 

Silence falls over them, the only sound in the room Jaskier’s soft humming as he finishes braiding her hair. Her mind is in overdrive, unsure of how to handle Jaskier’s observations that are too accurate for her comfort. And when he steps back, waving his hands in the general direction of her hair as he exclaims that his master piece is finished, she reaches her hand up to feel the style. He braided multiple strands of hair into small braids that come together into one large braid that falls down her back. Practical and stylish, Sansa would’ve approved.

“There we are. Now eat up and prepare your best scowl!” Jaskier says, taking a step away from Visenya and motioning towards the food with a ta-da hand gesture. She moves towards the table, the frown on her face slowly fading away as her vision grows clearer. 

“Might want to stock up on more hair dye, by the way. Your natural hair color is showing,” Jaskier nonchalantly says, perching like a bird on the edge of the bed. Visenya stops in her tracks, hands immediately touching her head while she looks at Jaskier, panic clearly painted on her face.

“What are you --” She begins to say, but Jaskier cuts her off.

“You didn’t think a refined man such as myself wouldn’t notice that your hair isn’t naturally that way, thank the gods,” Jaskier says. Visenya levels a glare towards him, trying to push down the anxiety bubbling inside her. In response, Jaskier simply throws his hands up. “I’m just saying, your hair texture isn’t the best.” 

“Whatever,” she says, sitting down at the table to begin eating. 

The duo is silent while Visenya eats until Jaskier breaks it when the light reflects something that causes it to glint in the corner of his eye. He stands up from the end of the bed and goes over to a side table. 

“Well well well. Looks like our favorite Witcher left behind a token of his love,” Jaskier says, his tone similar to a smug child saying _I told you so_. Visenya turns to look at Jaskier, a sharp insult on the tip of her tongue. She racks her mind trying to figure out what he could be talking about. But of all the things that run through her mind, what she sees isn’t what she expected.

Renfri’s broach.

##  **o0o0o0o0o**

“Have you ever been in love Jane?” Jaskier asks, breaking the silence that envelops the duo. It’s their second night of travel, and with the nearest inn being two days away from their current location, they’ve taken to camping off to the side of the main road. Visenya had found a small clearing in the heavily wooded terrain, the thick foliage surrounding the camp heavily obscuring them from anyone passing by. The radius of the camp was tiny, only large enough for the two of them to comfortably fit their belongings and light a fire. 

Visenya sits on her bedroll, leisurely reclining against the tree behind her while mindlessly chewing on the rabbit meat she’d hunted earlier. Her leather armor lies discarded beside her, leaving her in a light undershirt and a pair of trousers, the cool air feeling refreshing against her warm body. Jaskier is huddled near the fire he started when they first set camp, getting as close as possible without being burnt. Visenya’s eyes lazily move towards Jaskier, whose gaze is already firmly locked on her. A muffled sigh escapes her mouth as she looks directly at a tree on the other side of camp. For a moment she considers lying or telling him to fuck off. 

But unconsciously her thoughts wander back to Winterfell. To all the quiet nights she would sit with Jon in the Godswood. The towering trees surrounding them would block them off from the outside world, allowing them to just...be, creating a world with just the two of them. Even if only for a few stolen moments, they were just Jon and Visenya, not a bastard and an exiled princess. Neither of them would dare to speak, afraid that if they did the bubble would burst and this delusion they’ve created would come crashing down. In the sanctity of the Godswood, the reality that they’d never have more than unspoken words and an eventual goodbye was avoided. Sitting under vivid red leaves that fell around them and swirled in the biting cold, everything seemed simple. Even though they both knew it wasn’t and never would be. 

She’d smile at him so warmly that sometimes Jon fully believed it could melt all the snow in the North with a glance and he'd wield a small grin that made Visenya’s heart race. There’d be a crinkle at the corner of his eyes that reminded her of a mischievous boy that snuck into the kitchen to steal pastries with her. And the grim mask Jon often wore whenever in Winterfell would slip away while the ghosts that followed Visenya would melt like snow in summer until she couldn’t remember their names. Their hands would lie on the ground, just a hair away from each other. When either of them were feeling brave, their fingers would delicately brush against the others. Her purple eyes would trace the curves of his face while he would do the same, albeit subtler than her. 

Her mind retraces all the times they stood in sunlit rooms, filled to the brim with people who chatted between one another, never fully looking at Visenya and Jon, like they were illusions created from the reflection of the sun. They’d steal glances at each other when no one would see, their smiles speaking a secret language only they knew. Her eyes would meet his and she’d see colors that she's never seen with anyone else. The world always felt boring and grey without Jon, being with him showed her colors she never knew existed. And sometimes Robb would be in the room, noticing their glances, but he'd say nothing, feigning ignorance if it was ever brought up. Because he knew their fate as well as they did. 

“Yeah, I guess,” she responds after a few moments of silence. Her lips curve upwards unknowingly as she gets lost in her melancholy. Jaskier carefully watches her, a solemn expression on his face. He memorizes the look on her face, the tilt of her lips and the stars in her eyes. 

“What happened?” he asks, curiosity clawing at his mind. In the year they’d been traveling together he was so sure he’s seen all sides of her, and yet it seems not. 

Her lips pull downwards into a frown, and like the brightest star in the sky burning out, her eyes dim until they’re dull and lifeless. It’s not the same cold indifference he’s always seen in them or the teasing glint that sneaks past her cold exterior against her better judgment. It’s sadder, like her life has been nothing but a tragedy disguised as a fairytale. And maybe it has been.

She remembers trying to fight for it - declaring that she didn’t care about his status. Her father - as foolish as he was - abandoned his duties for love; Robert Baratheon started a war for a woman! Why should Visenya accept their fate lying down? She’d beg him to just run away with her, but he never agreed, just like Visenya knew he wouldn’t. But there were some days, in the quietest moments of the night, when the moon was at its highest and the stars were all but gone, where she swore he nearly cracked, almost let her have her way. But he didn’t, his fear that he’d never be able to give Visenya what he felt she deserved holding him back. But she’d fight anyways, stubbornly gripping onto him so tightly only for it to slip between her fingers anyways, like water falling through the cracks. Because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t change their ending that was written in the stars long before she even met him. Chasing him was like chasing shadows in a blackened room. And she knew-- gods she knew how it had to end, but that knowledge didn’t lessen the sting he left behind. Jon was the only thing she’d ever wanted since she could remember wanting anything. 

Her gaze moves over to Jaskier, whose eyes are still firmly locked on her. She tightens her lips into a thin line, but there’s a slight quiver in the corners of her mouth. For the first time, Jaskier wonders how old she truly is. Her golden eyes in an eternal glare, with ivory skin turned steel, she holds none of the childlike nativity she should have. But with the warm glow of the fire reflecting off her face, she doesn't look like a hardened warrior. She’s just a child playing pretend, wearing her mother’s shoes while trying to wield her father’s sword that’s too heavy to lift properly. She’s just a kid, only a few years into adulthood. 

“Nothing,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. Jaskier's ears strain to hear the whisper over the wildlife ambient noises. She shifts her eyes away from him as she focuses on the flickering fire. 

She remembers watching Jon ride away on his horse with his Uncle Benjen. Hidden away from prying eyes in the ramparts she watched him leave her behind. The memory is so vivid she can nearly taste the salty tears that fell from her eyes. A hollow feeling in her chest as he did. How desperately she wanted to lash out and scream, to run to the stables and take a horse to chase him down - demand that he give her a proper goodbye. She didn’t want to just let him go, allow him to leave her with all the grace of the princess she should’ve been. Because despite what people may whisper behind closed doors or cupped palms that cover their mouths, she loved him, she really did. And a part of her was determined to fight for it, convinced that maybe it would be enough to make him stay. But she did nothing, her pride rearing its ugly head, unwilling to let herself make a fool of herself for the sake of a man that was always just out of reach. 

“He went his way and I went mine.” 

“Do you miss him, still love him?” Jaskier asks. 

The question brings her pause. Does she miss Jon? Without a doubt, yes. But does she still love him, if she ever did to begin with? She’s not too sure. He still lingers in the back of her mind, but grows fainter and fainter with each passing day and new adventure. Yet, some nights when she’s haunted by the what-ifs, the memories hanging around like smoke in a burning room, she’s convinced she did love him, if only for a moment in time. But who could really know, especially now that they’re worlds away. 

“I- I don’t know,” she says, her voice hoarse and croaky, like she just screamed for ten minutes straight. Jaskier opens his mouth, unable to stop the questions from spilling out of his mouth, but Visenya cuts him off. The tremble of her lips grows harder to conceal each passing moment, Westeros beginning to drown her with all the tragedy that haunts it. Her previously dull and boring eyes begin to glisten, but not with stars or warmth, but with tears. The perfectly curated facade of disinterest she wears like a mask begins to crack; pride being the only thing keeping her together. 

“We should go to sleep, early day of traveling tomorrow and all,” she says, the emotionless tone of her voice back, and as if it never broke, Visenya places the mask back on. Without awaiting a reply from Jaskier she shimmies between the bedroll and lies down. She closes her eyes, willing sleep to come sooner rather than later. She hears Jaskier quietly sigh before he begins rustling around, settling himself in his bedroll to get some sleep as well.

Despite herself, she thinks of home one last time.

How conflicted she was, angry at the world and angry at herself for how happy she was with the Starks. 

Until Robert Baratheon came and whisked them into the game of thrones. 

##  **o0o0o0o0o**

_The woman moves into what appears to have once been a magnificent throne room. However, it’s now been turned into ruins, a dull comparison to the shining gem it used to be. The vaulted ceilings lie in a pile of rubble littering the ground, exposing the sky that’s thick with ash. It falls from the sky, covering the floor in a similar fashion to the thick snow that coated the North. Pieces of it delicately land in the woman’s shining silver hair, creating a sort of crown on her head. A diadem of fire and calamity, naming her Queen of the Ashes. Her purple eyes focus solely on the throne ahead of her which was still relatively untouched by the fire that destroyed the rest of the city, leaving it a prize for the madness she succumbed to. But it wasn’t madness -- not to her._

_In a trance, she moves towards it. The soft patter of her heels clicking against the stone floor echoes in the room. Her heartbeat aligns with her breathing, growing quicker and unsteady the closer she gets to the throne._

_Her throne._

_The only thing she ever wanted._

_Halfway across the throne room, something reflecting out of the corner of her eye captures her attention. Her movements halt, turning her body to face the source of the distraction. It’s the remnants of a stained glass mosaic lying smashed on the ground. Slivers of the glass cover the floor, surrounding a piece of the artwork that still stood intact, tall and proud and almost defiant. It’s jagged and uneven, the original art it depicted indiscernible. She moves towards it, eyes locked on her own reflection that becomes clearer the closer she gets. The crunch of glass beneath her boots causes an unpleasant sound, but her eyes refuse to leave her image to try and avoid any glass._

_Within a moment she stands before the glass. Her reflection is distorted and discolored due to its design, but her face is clear as day. Soft purple eyes stare back at her, hiding the storm brewing inside them. The soft curves of her face are replaced with harsh lines and the mischievous smirk that always pulled on her lips is instead in a tight line, but the most distressing thing is her eyes. They go from a soft purple to a fiery amber - similar to the flames that consumed the city around her. They’re bitter and cruel, unlike the warmth they held in years past._

_With a harsh gasp, she physically recoils from the reflection and immediately turns away from the glass. With her mindset on the throne once more, she moves towards it again, her pace faster than it had been previously. For some reason, the change she’d seen unsettled her more than she’d care to admit. Finally, she crosses to the other side of the room, standing mere inches away from the throne, and with an air of reverence, she walks up the steps leading to the dais that it rests on. Carefully, she reaches a pale hand out to touch it, desperate to know this is real and not a delusion the darkest parts of her mind created. Only a centimeter from grasping the left arm of the throne, a large shadow flies ahead. The woman looks up, watching the dangerously beautiful creature proudly flying above the ruins. Its large form blocks out any sunlight that manages to peek through the ash. Its vivid golden scales are a stark contrast to the shades of grey the city had been swallowed in. A terrifying screech escapes its mouth as it beats its massive bat-like wings, the force of it disrupting the settled ash on the ground._

_“Visenya.” a distorted voice calls out. The woman’s eyes flit around the room, attempting to discern the source of the voice._

_“Visenya!” it calls again, sounding more frantic than before._

_“Visenya!”_

With a harsh gasp of air, her eyes snap open.


	9. Toss a Coin to Your Witcher

Visenya’s eyes shoot open. Her breathing is heavy and erratic with her heart beating rapidly against her chest. A cool sweat coats her forehead and brows with a slight tremble in her body, like a leaf shaking in the wind. Amber eyes dart from left to right, attempting to take in her surroundings. Everything is hazy and out of focus, like a thick fog hangs in the room, translucent enough to not be immediately noticeable, but still there. She’s in a bed, larger than the small lumpy ones in the inns she and Jaskier inhabit and certainly plusher than the hard floor she swears she fell asleep on last night. 

Heavy furs cover her body, keeping out any potential chill, the hairs on her body stand up straight due to the cold air. Directly across from her is a small table pushed up against the wall with a small mirror resting on top of it. The window to her right is shut firmly, and adorned with loosely hanging curtains made from a thick navy blue fabric. On the left side of the room, a long wardrobe crafted from dark wood, and beside it a dresser crafted from similar materials. Visenya pushes the heavy furs and sits up. Her back pops at the movement, her neck and shoulders stiff from a restless sleep. In the back of her mind something feels off, but for the life of her, Visenya can’t put her finger on it. A part of her that’s buried deep in her hazy thoughts is screaming at the top of its lungs, but she doesn’t know why. 

Winterfell, she’s in Winterfell. But she's always been here, so why does it seem so wrong?

She slips out of the bed, her left and then right foot touching the cold floor, it’s dark stone color matching with the rest of the room's decor. The cold air bites at her bare legs, the light nightgown doing nothing against the cold. Only silence fills the room, not even the sound of her feet lightly tapping against the stone floor is heard. For some reason, this unnerves Visenya, but once again she doesn’t know why. She approaches the vanity table, sitting in a wooden chair in front of it. the legs of the chair scrape against the ground, the sound echoing in Visenya’s mind. It’s the first noise she’s heard since she awoke. She sits in the chair, the wooden backing not soothing the stiffness she feels. 

Looking into the small mirror, she stares at her reflection. Tangled silver hair delicately frames her pale skin that nearly glows in the dark room. Purple eyes glimmer in the reflection, staring at Visenya with a hint of mirth she’s familiar with but also seems almost like a distant dream. For some reason it seems wrong, the reflection staring back at her, but Visenya can’t place why. Targaryens are known to have silver hair and purple eyes, so why do her own features feel foreign? Another shiver overcomes her body, the sensation mildly confusing. She outstretches a hand towards the mirror --.

_Knock. Knock._

The sound echoes around the room. Visenya turns her gaze to the heavy wooden door and her arm retracts. She stares at the source of the booming noise, not sure how to react. A moment passes and another knock, this time with a voice attached. 

“My lady, I’m here to make sure you’re awake,” a voice calls out, the soft voice barely registering in Visenya’s mind. She blankly stares at the door, before remembering how to speak. 

“Come in,” she replies, attempting to project her voice. A moment passes before it opens and a woman hardly younger than Visenya enters the room. Her hair is mousy brown, pulled into a tight bun without a strand out of place, a plain dress that’s as dark and dreary as the room limply hangs from her small body, the fabric drowning her. She nervously bows in Visenya’s direction before scurrying to the wardrobe. She flings open the doors and begins rifling through the dresses hanging inside. Visenya watches the woman, not sure what to make of the scene. She’s seen her before, that much she is sure of, so why doesn’t she know her name? 

She pulls out a pale blue, with delicate embroidery near the bottom, a garment much more intricate than the one she is wearing herself, and yet she turns to Visenya with a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The woman turns to Visenya, a satisfied expression on her otherwise somber face. The dress is familiar and evokes an emotional response, her eyes dampening, a sharp pain in her heart. And she’s confused, more so than before. 

“This dress Lady Sansa made for you will look lovely.” the woman remarks. She begins rifling through the drawers, pulling out various pieces of fabric. Visenya turns her gaze back to her mirror, staring at her reflection with a blank expression.

Flashes of Visenya in that dress, hair braided back as she stands in line with Theon and Jon, uncomfortably waiting for the King and Queen, along with their company to arrive. But that can’t be right, Robert Baratheon hasn’t been to Winterfell since she was eight years old. 

The woman begins humming a soft tune under her breath. The sound amplifies in Visenya’s mind until the melody is all she can hear and it clouds her thoughts and further muffles the distant screaming in her head. It intoxicates her like a strong northern ale, pulling her further and further away from sober thoughts and into a dream-like state. Soon the humming turns into outright singing, the hauntingly sweet words dancing around Visenya’s mind and while the woman’s voice is lovely and soft, something about it’s grating, like scraping a knife against a plate.

Visenya continues to stare at her reflection, her expression unchanging and eyes unmoving as they stare into the mirror. All the while, the woman continues singing the eerily beautiful song while rifling through the drawers filled with clothes. Everything is unchanging in the room, feeling as though time itself is still until Visenya notices a few slight changes. The metal framing around the mirror begins to rust, the once bright metal turning dark. The mirror portion starts to discolor and is blotched with dark spots and the entirety of the mirror covered in a hazy fog, obscuring Visenya from her own reflection. The vanity table shows signs of aging as well, no longing feeling as sturdy as it was a moment ago with random parts of it looking rotted. But the most obvious change is the air. The crisp morning air that’s normal in the North turns stale, the cold in the air burning deep in Visenya’s bones rather than leaving her skin cold. But the woman continues singing, weaving her hands through Visenya hair like it’s threads of silver, either not noticing the sudden change or unbothered by it.

“You seem warm, My Lady. Shall I get a maester to check on your health?” the woman says, pausing her singing. 

“N-no I’m fine, just a bad dream is all,” Visenya says, staring at her reflection in the old mirror. 

“Did you dream of fire and dragons?” she asks. Visenya’s heart stops as all the thoughts in her mind cease. She whips around to face the woman, the hair she previously held pulling Visenya’s scalp. 

“Wha - what did you just say?” Visenya asks, her eyes piercing into the woman. She doesn’t look startled by Visenya’s sudden change in mood, in fact, her face is completely emotionless. Rather than a real, breathing, living person, she looks like a life-sized doll, eyes dull and dead, with nothing behind them.

“There’s no need to be afraid, my lady. The Lord of Light smiles down upon his chosen champions. From fire and ash you were reborn, to bring a world thrust into darkness into the light.” she says, speaking as if she were a dead person brought to life - monotone with no inflection - weaving her hands into the locks of Visenya hair, meticulously braiding each strand. 

“What are you talking about? I demand you tell me.” Visenya says, her voice getting louder with each word spoken as her temper begins to flare. She stands from the chair, pushing the woman’s hands away from her face. 

“Remember the words, remember what was said. With Fire and Blood.” the woman speaks, this time her tone has a sense of urgency in it, but for the life of her, Visenya can’t think why. But before she can question her further, the ground beneath Visenya is ripped away, and she feels herself free-falling in darkness, unable to make heads or tails of her surroundings. All she knows is it’s cold and dark. She tries to scream but nothing comes out, leaving her mouth open with silent screams. Her hair whips around her face and she watches the silver locks darkening until the shining silver is a dull brown.

Then she hits the ground. It’s sudden, unexpected, and very painful. But feeling solid ground around her is somewhat comforting. 

And when her eyes flutter open, apprehensive and scared of what she might see, she breathes out a sigh of relief. Tall trees, emerald leaves, a fire that’s been smothered, and a sleeping figure. She’s in the camp again, if she ever even left. She places a hand over her chest as she sits up, the other one reaching to wipe away the dampness on her face. Birds softly chirp high on the branches, singing in tune with the gentle breeze that rustles the forest. The sun is rising, the faint rays of morning light hitting the trees, the leaves fanning the light out below them, and with a final heavy breath, Visenya pushes her body up to stand.

Stumbling through the small camp, past the sleeping bard, she breaks into the thick of the forest. Her hand rests on one of her silver daggers, eyes keenly looking around the thick greenery for any movement. She crouches low to the ground in an attempt to obscure herself from future prey and stalks forward. To her left, she notices the tall grass shifting, and with the grace of a cat pouncing onto its prey, she pulls out her dagger and flings it. The dagger flies through the air but instead of striking her target, it embeds itself into the tree nearby. A moment later, a fat rabbit with beady black eyes rushes out of the grass and disappears into the forest. A frustrated groan leaves Visenya’s mouth and she trudges towards her dagger and pulls it out of the wood with just enough force.

Absentmindedly wandering through the forest, her thoughts return to the dream. It’s odd, she’s had dreams before but never so...life like. She’d felt every emotion, smell every scent, and feel every surface as she would’ve in reality. The phantom feeling of ash clinging to her skin is still there and she catches herself shaking her head, attempting to get the ash out before remembering it’s not actually there. Perhaps it’s merely her mind playing games, a trick the mind was playing on itself to coax out her best-kept and well hidden fears, even the ones that had been buried so deep that she'd forgotten about them. However, the chill in her body as she remembers the madness buried in the eyes of her reflection makes it difficult to convince herself. 

And that second...dream, if it was even that. The woman’s words echo in her head, on repeat over and over, growing louder each time she hears them again.

_Fire and Blood._

She knows the words well, the words of House Targaryen. The only comfort she had during her darkest nights. An assurance that even if she was physically by herself, isolated from her only chance of ever knowing her family, she was never truly alone. And some nights she’d even convince herself Queen Visenya I was with her, watching over her, guiding her every step of the way. That she was there, when Visenya first started training to fight, guiding her swings with the wooden sword, coaxing her into a proper battle stance. And even though they were foolish tales and fantasies dreamed up by a small child too sad for her age, they were comforting as she maneuvered through this new strange world. 

With a huff, she sinks down to the ground, leaning her back against the tree. A hysterical laugh escapes her mouth, the sound dancing away in the mellow breeze rushing through the forest. 

“I’m going insane,” she mutters to herself, and she rests her forehead against the palms of her hands. Her thoughts wander as she absentmindedly scapes her hairline with the tips of her fingers. Her nails are unkempt and longer than preferred, strands of hair getting stuck in the corners of her nails. 

“There you are!” Jaskier’s voice breaks Visenya from her thoughts. Her head snaps up in his direction, watching as his form swiftly approaches her spot. He’s wearing the same ensemble from the night before and his floppy brown hair is as well managed as it can be on the road. Her face twists into a look of confusion, her eyes following his nonchalant movements. However, Jaskier doesn’t acknowledge her and instead opts to sit on her left, only part of his body resting against the tree. 

“Now I was going to leave you to do your…well whatever it is you were doing,” Jaskier continues waving his hand vaguely in Visenya direction. “But, then it sounded like you were having a real crisis. So I thought to myself ‘Oh better make sure she’s okay.’ You are my source of protection after all.” Jaskier muses, a lopsided grin resting on his face. The teasing tone in his voice is a stark contrast to the worry swirling in his eyes. A small grin creeps its way up onto Visenya's mouth, a warm feeling filling her chest. The harsh lines that were forming on her forehead immediately softened, the anxiety and hint of fear barely hidden behind her eyes swiftly disappearing. 

“I’m fine,” she replies. Jaskier raises his eyebrows at her response, clearly not buying the lie. “Well, I’m not fine, but I will be,” she corrects herself before Jaskier has a chance to verbalize his doubts. Seemingly satisfied, he nods once at her words but makes no move to stand. Instead, he wiggles towards Visenya until their legs are touching and leans his head closer towards hers so it’s resting against the tree. Always one for personal space, Visenya normally would’ve either physically or verbally lashed at him - demanding the bard keep his distance. However, the scathing remarks never come. Instead, Visenya moves over slightly to allow Jaskier more room, watching the leaves delicately blow in the wind, the faint sound of birds singing echoing in the distance.

“If you ever need to talk to someone...” Jaskier’s voice interrupts the quiet atmosphere surrounding them. Visenya turns to face him, raising a single brow with her lips tilted upwards. 

“You’ll be the first person who knows. Considering you’re the only person I talk to.” Visenya replies. At her reply the serious expression that Jaskier wore immediately dissipated. His eyes sparkling with mischief and his lips were pulling into an amused smirk. 

“And what about our mighty Witcher! How would our dastardly hero feel about not being included in this list?” Jaskier exclaims, dramatically emphasizes his words. Visenya simply rolls her eyes at him. 

Everything with him always comes back to Geralt. 

Jaskier then leans forward, eyebrows raised so high they nearly touch his hairline. When he quickly moistens his lips with his tongue, Jaskier more closely resembles a cat that got into the canary rather than a man. 

“Could it possibly be because you and Geralt don’t do much…” his eyes flit to the left and right before landing on Visenya again. “Talking?” he asks. Visenya brings a hand up and smacks Jaskier on his left shoulder. He immediately moves away from her, rubbing the spot she’d struck. “That’s not very nice!” he exclaims, moving until there is sufficient space in between them. 

“Play stupid games, win stupid prizes,” Visenya replies. She stands from her sitting position and holds a hand out for Jaskier to take. Always one for theatrics, Jaskier moves backward and throws one of his hands across his forehead. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, an exaggerated gasp escaping his mouth. 

“Time and time again, my fair maiden has abused and used me. When will this insanity end, giving me sweet release from her beguiling aura? I pray to the gods every night that it will change” Jaskier exclaims. After he finishes his words, he waits a moment and then opens one of his eyes only to quickly close it and sigh again, louder than the first time and far more dramatic. 

“Ha ha ha, very funny. Now let's go before the sun is gone, we’ve got places to go.” Visenya says, her expression hiding any amusement she got from his antics. A defeated sigh leaves Jaskier's mouth, and a moment later he places his hand in Visenya’s as she pulls his body from the ground. 

“As my lady commands,” he says. And with a single bump against his shoulder from Visenya, the two of them begin walking back to camp. 

##  **o0o0o0o0o**

“When are you going to finally admit that you enjoy those novels more than you let on?” Jaskier asks, pulling out one of his quills, scratching it against a piece of parchment. Two tankards full of ale rest in front of them, neither of them drunk from. The ale here is watery and weak, yet still managing to taste worse than rotting fungus. 

_Flick_ , the thin parchment page of the book nearly rips from how quickly it’s flipped. Visenya glances at him out of the corner of her eyes, raising a single brow at him before returning her gaze to the trashy romance novel. It’s sickeningly sweet, the dialogue almost as unrealistic as the premise of the book itself, but it’s something to read when she needs to stave off boredom. 

“Do you want me to hit you? Because I will hit you.”

_Flick_ , another page. The heroine of the story finally meets up with the main love interest, practically throwing herself into his arms, that the author took time to describe every detail of. Visenya's face crunches up into a grimace, quickly turning the page. 

“I’d rather you didn’t, if you don’t mind. I think I’m still bruised from where you hit me when we first met.” He runs his hand over the spot on his abdomen she elbowed him all those months ago, after the whole situation with elves resolved itself. And she can’t help the small self satisfied smirk that slowly creeps onto her face. 

_Flick._

The soft sun rays of dawn creep through the windows, the thick layer of dirt and grime that covers them dispersing the light. The rays shoot through the tavern, randomly choosing the next victim to blind with their radiance. The room is loud with town folk who gather around the old creaky tables, with drinks in hand, muttering quietly amongst themselves. Tension is thick in the air, everyone seemingly on edge, and it has nothing to do with the newcomers. This tension is different, almost like the whole village is slowly sinking into their fears with only the tops of their heads above the water. 

“Why can’t you be nice to me, Jane? I really thought after our conversation around the fire three nights ago we were growing closer?” Jaskier asks, feigning offense in his tone, placing his hand over his heart with eyes wide and innocent looking.

Visenya snorts. 

“Maybe you should try--”

The front door swings open, silencing any noise in the room. A figure rushes through them, it’s an older man, chubbier than most with a short beard and balding hair. His clothes are nicer than most other people in the room, besides the putrid smelling goo that clings to it, seemingly a mixture of blood and black ooze. His whole body is trembling like a leaf in a storm, clutching a fabric hat in his hands as he rushes towards the center of the tavern.

“Eustace, what is this?” the barkeep calls out, scrunching his nose as he passes. 

“I-I saw it!” he exclaims as he drops his hat on a table, the room gasping at his proclamation. Visenya glances at him for a second before looking back to her book, scanning the words with mild interest. It seems the author is still going on and on about the hero’s rippling muscles. 

Like a swarm of rats skittering towards their next meal, the entirety of the room gravitates towards him and by association, Visenya and Jaskier, since he stands closest to their table. Jaskier flips his journal to a blank page, eagerly waiting for his next grand tale. 

“I tell you no lie, it swallowed the whole village it did. Not a bone to be found,” he starts, making sure his uneven and shaky voice carries throughout the entire room. 

“Oh don’t give me that look, shitling. That’s why we had to call him…” he pauses, allowing the words to ring in the air before continuing, “The White Wolf.” Everyone around them dramatically gasps, completely enraptured by the story. Visenya eyes flick up from the book in her hand, leveling a hard stare at Jaskier, her gaze enough to turn him into stone if he dares to look in her direction. Noticeably, he does everything to not look at her. 

The White Wolf, of course Geralt is here. No wonder Jaskier was so eager to settle in this tavern for the day.

“And he stood in the middle of that frozen lake like he knew it was coming for him. The ice cracked open and a selkimore shot out! Oh you’ve never seen one, but it’d take down a ship with its cavernous mouth full of devil's teeth!” the man exclaims, waving his arms around like a mad man. “And it… swallowed… that Witcher...whole!” he finishes. 

Visenya’s head shoots up like a bolt of lightning, narrowing her eyes at the man. 

_‘No, there’s no way Geralt’s dead, he wouldn’t just...let himself get eaten like that.’_

The words do little to comfort the small bit of anxiety inside her. Witchers hunt monsters and monsters are deadly, tearing apart people and destroying their homes as easily as Visenya breathes air. But Geralt isn’t normal, this is what he’s trained to do. She dares to glance at Jaskier out of the corner of her eyes, seeing him nonchalantly scribbling away and that does more to quell her worries than any half assed words she could concoct. 

“Oh, this is brilliant!” Jaskier says, quickly diffusing the tight and tense atmosphere that surrounds the inn. In perfect synch, the patrons snap their attention towards Jaskier, staring at him in disbelief, as an amused smirk plays on Visenya’s face. Feeling a million glares piercing his skin like knives, Jaskier looks up from his writings, eyes wide and his mouth open. “Oh sorry. It’s just Geralt is usually so stingy with the details.”

“For good reason,” Visenya mutters under her breath. 

Flick. Now the hero is dueling his rival so he can marry the heroine. 

“Uh- and then what happened?” Jaskier asks. 

“He died.” 

“Eh...he’s fine.” Jaskier replies, his voice nonchalant and relaxed.

“Look, I was there. I know what I saw with my own--” heat builds in his voice, face as red as a ripe tomato, aggressively shoving a pudgy finger towards Jaskier. Visenya slowly rises from the chair, hand ghosting over the pommel of the dagger strapped to her leg, eyes in slits as they level a glare on the man. 

Before he gets the chance to escalate the situation and force Visenya to end it entirely, the door slams open, metal handle clashing against the wooden walls. 

In walks a hulking figure that is drenched head to toe in the same grotesque smelling foreign goo the pudgy man is coated in. Everyone’s attention turns towards the door, frantically covering their noses as the stench is stronger and fouler than what the rounder man emanates. With his sword in hand, Geralt walks towards Jaskier and Visenya, eyes set on the man before them and the people part, granting him a wide berth.

“See,” Jaskier says, nonchalantly writing in his book. 

“What’s that stench?” the man asks Geralt as he approaches the table. 

“Selkimore guts. Had to get it from the inside. I’ll take what I’m owed.” Geralt says, his voice rougher than it usually is. Jaskier immediately jumps up, quill still in hand and begins singing that gods awful song.

“Toss a coin to your Witcher oh valley of plenty oh oh oh.” The man tosses a coin pouch as the entire tavern begins singing along, hesitantly at first, but as the song continues, people grow more enthusiastic. Geralt side steps the crowd and moves straight for the bar, bag of gold in hand. Jaskier rushes after him, rambling on about one thing or another. A sigh of exasperation and mild relief leaves Visenya's mouth as she thumbs through the book again, despite having completely lost interest in it by this point.

_‘It keeps my muse fresh and exciting!_ ’ Jaskier always says about his large collection of frilly books, but to Visenya they’re just dead weight only useful to pass the time. But it doesn’t even do that.

“Food, woman, and wine, Geralt!” Visenya hears Jaskier exclaim. She looks up to find Geralt a few steps away from their table, still covered in guts with no drink in hand. 

Wordlessly, Visenya grabs her waterskin that’s filled with Cintran ale and tosses it to Geralt. She then returns her attention back to the romance novel. 

“The drinks here are shit,” she said.


	10. Cintran Ale and Lingering Ghosts

**_Splash._ **

The water pours out of the wood bucket, falling over Geralt’s hair and onto his body. The selkimore guts, now floating in the tub, the stench not nearly as burning as it had been previously. Like a dog, he shakes his head, droplets of water hitting the walls and Visenya. Without moving her gaze from the novel in hand, she wipes it away, turning the page immediately after. 

“Could you be a dear Jane, and grab me more of that soap?” Jaskier asks, setting the bucket down on the ground, wipes away the water on his forehead, and pushes his puffed sleeves to cuff around his elbow. 

“No.”

_Flick._

“Isn’t she just lovely, and so helpful too?” Jaskier exclaims, sticky sarcasm coating each word like honey as he glides across the room, only two paces away from Visenay’s left side. He reaches up, standing on the tips of his toes- despite the shelf being within comfortable reach - and grabs a bar of soap, a distinct lavender scent following it. He twirls, like a dancer on a stage, his large sleeves lightly smacking Visenya’s cheek. She reaches up to swat him with the palm of her hand, but he’s already danced away from her, twirling and spinning his way back to Geralt. 

“Oh I’m helpful alright, I help you empty your coin purse.” she mutters, pursing her lips into a tight line.

_Flick._

Geralt snorts, a smirk on his lips as he watches Visenya, his amber eyes practically glowing in the dim light. Their eyes meet for a second before Visenya snaps her gaze back to the book. 

“You know, maybe the two of you should travel together, you’re both so angry, like a pair of old people - you moreso, Geralt.” Jaskier says, his tone similar to that of a spoiled child groaning about not getting its way. “At least Jane cracks a joke and a smile once in a while.” He picks up the wooden bucket, filling it with clean water. 

Geralt grunts, glaring at Jaskier, his white hair slick against his face; Visenya just shows Jaskier her middle finger.

_Flick._ There’s only ten pages of the book left, yet Visenya can’t remember the name of the leads in the story…, or even it’s plot.

“Now, now, stop your boorish grunts of protest.” 

Water hits Geralt from above, his hair nearly clean of monster innards as they get washed away from him. The water pooling in the tub ripples, small waves flying out as new water takes its place. Instead of shaking his head, Geralt scrubs at his face, nearly growling as he does so. 

“It is one night, body guarding your best friend in the whole wide world, how hard could it be.” Jaskier says, turning around, and tosses the diary rag from his hand onto a bench, before circling around the tub until he’s standing on the opposite side of his previous spot.

“I’m not your friend.” 

“Oh, so you normally let strangers rub chamomile on your lovely bottom?” Jaskier’s tone is teasing, a smirk on his lips. 

Geralt turns towards Jaskier, arms on the side of the tub, lips set in a thin line with eyes burning like hot coals.

Visenya bites her lip, and despite her desperate attempt to hide the smile that’s pulling at the corners of her mouth, laughter escapes from her tightly pressed lips. Immediately after, she coughs, a fragile and ill attempt to disguise the noise. Even a mute with a bad left eye however would see through the coverup. Jaskier turns and meets Visenya’s gaze, flashing her a wink before looking away. 

“Right, that’s what I thought.” 

“I thought you were paying Jane to make sure you don’t get stabbed or robbed?” Geralt asks, tone low and raspy. 

_Flick_ , eyes scan the book, only retaining every other word carefully written in aged black ink, keen ears intently listening to the conversation. 

“I am, and she does a very good job at that. The only wounds I’ve sustained since hiring her are the ones she inflicts onto me. But this isn’t just any old party, my friend. This is a betrothal feast, hosted by the Lioness of Cintra herself! There will be suitors from all over the world, powerful lords vying for the chance at winning the hand of her daughter, who I hear is very beautiful.” 

“And?” Geralt asks, raising a single ashen brow.

“And Jane won’t agree to go...but if you go, I’m sure she’ll agree to it!” Jaskier says.

“I’m right here.” 

“Yes, reading a book you claim is stupid and frivilous. So pointless, in fact, you haven’t put it down all day.” Jaskier says, turning to face her, a smug grin on his face that’s short lived.

**_Smack._ **

The book flies across the room, narrowly avoiding Jaskier’s face by only a few inches. It hits the wall with a resounding thud, pages crinkling as it falls to the ground. Geralt curses under his breath, grip on the wood tightening enough that veins begin to faintly pop out. Jaskier however, remains unphased, simply turning away from her to face Geralt once more. 

“Don’t mind her, she's just a bit cranky, she’s been having nightmares I think.” Jaskier says to Geralt, tone nonchalant and even, as if a book wasn’t just thrown at him. 

“Shut up.”

Geralt levels his gaze to Visenya, raising both his brows at her, an unspoken question in his eyes.

_‘Are you okay?’_

She shakes her head, lips in a tight line as she rolls her eyes, not willing to delve into all of her childhood trauma that’s reared its ugly head since that first dream all those nights ago. She’d been successful, nearly all the memories locked away in that same box in the darkest corner of her mind, yet just enough remained to taunt her in her dreams. 

Lingering only a second longer, Geralt shifts his eyes back to Jaskier, who bounces on the balls of his feet, watching the two of them as if they were the only entertainment he’s had in weeks. 

“How many of these lords want to kill you?”

“Hard to say. One stops keeping track after a while: wives, concubines, mothers - sometimes.” 

Both Geralt and Visenya look up at Jaskier, looks of equal incredulousness and annoyance painted on their faces. 

“Oh, yes, there’s that face --” Jaskier sits on the small stool that’s pushed up against the tub. “-- scary face. No lord in their right mind would dare come near me with you there!”

Geralt’s jaw clenches just a hair, his eyes twitching ever so slightly that it could be written off as a trick of the light. He reaches over and grabs his mug of ale, bringing it to his lips, but Jaskier intercepts him, pulling the cup away from him as if Geralt was a child. 

“Ooo, on second thought, might want to lay off the Cintran ale, a clear head would be best.” Jaskier pats Geralt on the shoulder, stands from the stool and moves towards Visenya.

“A gift for My Lady!” Jaskier exclaims, lowering into a deep bow as he passes Geralt’s mug to Visenya, amber liquid spilling over the brim as he carelessly carries the cup. Face void of any emotion, she grabs the cup...pouring out the entirety of its contents on the ground, far enough away that the liquid won’t touch her feet. Jaskier just huffs, feigning anger as he turns around and moves towards the small vanity pushed up against a wall. He grabs a jacket that’s dark blue, the fit and fabric suited for a party rather than travel, distracting himself by holding it up and then setting it down, only to repeat the cycle. 

“I will not suffer tonight sober just because you hid your sausage in the wrong royal pantry. I’m not killing anyone, not over the petty squabbles of men.” 

He sets it down a final time, refolding it, and turning back to Geralt.

“Yes, yes, yes, you never get involved. Except you do, all the time.” Jaskier says, huffing as he moves towards Geralt. “Is this what happens when you get old? You get unbelievably cantankerous and crotchety. Actually, I’ve always wanted to know, do Witchers ever retire?”

“Yeah when they’re slow and get killed.” Geralt says, his tone aggressive but lacking the usual ferocity and fire found in it. 

“Come on, you must want something for yourself once all this monster hunting nonsense is over with?” Jaskier says, pressing the conversation further and further, fiending for anything Geralt will tell him. 

“I want nothing.” Jaskier looks down at his nails, then moves his gaze back to Geralt. He walks forward, leaning down so his elbows rested on the edge of the tub, facing Geralt. 

“Well who knows, maybe someone out there will want you.” Jaskier’s eyes flash to Visenya, but she isn’t looking at him, too busy pretending to be occupied. 

“I need no one, and the last thing I need is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are.” 

It's silent, each moment dragging on as the three of them wait for the other to break it. Geralt breaks eye contact, looking left and then right, eyes burning in the dim room.

“Where the fuck are my clothes, Jaskier?” Geralt says, snarling like a rabid animal.

“Oh, I had them taken to be cleaned, they were covered in selkimore guts, but you’re not going to the feast as a Witcher tonight.” Jaskier says, a mischievous glint in his eyes, ever present when Geralt is around it seems. 

Geralt opens his mouth,a stinging response on the tip of his tongue, but Jaskier interrupts the words before they can fully form. 

“But no need to worry about that.” Jaskier waves his hand, straightening his postures and gliding around the tub, and moving towards Visenya. “Now my dear Jane, will you agree to go with me now that our mighty, heroic Witcher--” Visenya just looks at Jaskier, face hard as stone.

“No. I already told you I’m not going.”

“But why not! Please, your presence is absolutely necessary with me!” Jaskier practically throws himself onto his knees, face like a begging puppy.

“I don’t like parties or weddings or betrothals.” She maintains the facade, not willing to break or show any weakness; cold and unfeeling, anything less and Jaskier will never let it go. 

“Why not.”

“ _Because I was murdered at one._ ” the words are like oil on her tongue, always just a few seconds from slipping out, but they don’t. She won’t let them. If she says the words out loud, it means they’re real, and if they’re real...she doesn’t know what she’ll do. 

“I just don’t.” It’s a lie, but an easy one, one she’s gotten good at telling. 

“Leave her alone Jaskier, I’ve already been pulled into your mess, no need to drag Jane into it, I’m sure she’s dealt with her fair share of predicaments, thanks to you.”

“Whatever, I'll have you know all of my messes, both intentional and not, are lovely.” Jaskier tilts his nose into the air, sniffling like an injured child playing into theatrics for attention. “I’ll leave you two grumps to it, maybe you can convince her with a smoldering gaze or something.” 

With one last teasing grin towards the both of them, Jaskier quickly exits the room like an actor leaving the stage after a staggering performance. The door closes behind him with a soft click, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. 

Visenya looks at Geralt, who looks at her, neither moving an inch. 

“Jane.” 

In that moment, with Geralt saying the fake name she gave herself all those months ago, it makes her realise just how much she misses hearing her real name. And she wonders how it would sound coming out of his mouth, whether the word would be like honey, sweet and smooth, sticking to her brain for the rest of her life. Or would it be harsher, his tongue having difficulty wrapping around the Old Valyrian name she stole from Queen Visenya I, like a petty thief. She remembers how Renfri would say it, somehow making her own name, something she’s heard a million times in her life, like sweet Southern sweets melting in her mouth. 

She remembers how...nice it felt, being able to be completely open and honest, when her life has been nothing but deceit and shadows for so long. And she almost breaks, pouring out everything from the moment she came into the world, banishing away the darkness that hung over King’s Landing, screaming and crying as she did. But she doesn’t. Fear claws at her mind, doubts that he would think her crazy or a deranged monster trying to work into his life assaulting her all at once. And it’s dizzying, so much so she nearly faints from the feeling.

“Jane.” Geralt says again, firmer this time, banishing away her inebriating fears and worries, everything clear within a single second. 

“Geralt,” 

She smirks at him, but it’s awkward and strange, looking more like a grimace than anything. 

“You alright?” he asks, and even in the dim light, she can see the lines in his forehead, brows furrowing. And for the second time that day, she considers telling him everything. But the same fears hold her back. 

“Aren’t I always?” she tries to joke, her voice going up three octaves as she tries to keep out the heaviness that always seems to follow her. 

“Hmm.” 

Silence washes over them, unspoken words and questions ricocheting off the walls and making everything feel smaller. 

“Thanks for the broach by the way.” Visenya breaks the silence first, motioning towards the broach that’s pinned to the left side of her tunic, hanging above her breast. 

“It looks better on you than it did me,” Geralt says, a smile that shows all his shiny white teeth on his face. Visenya nods her head, standing from the bench she perched herself on the moment Jaskier pushed them all into the room. Slowly and calculated, she begins to walk towards Geralt, each footstep ringing in the room until she’s by the tub, sitting on the stool Jaskier previously claimed. 

“I know, does wonders for my eyes when the light reflects off the gems,” she teases, crossing her left leg over the right. “It was the least you could do after leaving me to wake up by myself.”

“I didn’t realise you wanted me to stay.” Geralt rebuttals, raising a brow as he waits for her next move. 

“Oh don’t flatter yourself, I just wasn’t happy to deal with Jaskier’s prying questions alone. Do you know how many times I had to threaten to stab him, rob him, and then leave him for dead until he shut up? And even now he still makes subtle jokes about it.” Visenya says, rolling her eyes, resting her elbow on the edge of the tub, only a few inches away from Geralt. 

“My apologies for leaving you in such a dire situation.” Geralt leans forward, mimicking her light tone. 

“For shame Geralt, for shame.” 

“Is there anything I could do to make it up to the Lady?” he asks, leaning just a hair closer, and like there’s a magnetic field around him that pulls her to him, begging her to close the gap and feel his steady breaths fanning over her face. 

“The broach was a good start.” she replies, trying to not sound as breathless as she feels. 

She’s burning, her body all over electrified in a way it hasn’t been since the last time she saw Geralt. 

And then it’s suddenly cold, all the warmth being forcibly ripped from her body. The water hits against the tub as Geralt moves back, his body pressed against the other end of the tub, all coy smirk and smug eyes. 

_Payback for last time it seems._

Visenya rolls her eyes and straightens her back, eager for the flush that covers her body to disappear as quickly as it came. 

“Yeah whatever, you're naked and vulnerable, I could take you.” she says, waiting a moment before her eyes widen a fraction, Geralt smirk widening. ‘With my sword, that is. I could stab you with my sword and leave you dead. That’s what I meant, nothing else.” 

“Hmm, is that so?” Geralt’s eyes glint with amusement, the candles reflecting like roaring fires in his eyes. He’s beautiful in the dim glow of the flickering flames, skin glistening with droplets of water sticking to his body, further accentuating his rippling muscles and broad shoulders. 

“I hate you and Jaskier equally, just so you know.” Visenya says, huffing like a child, rolling her eyes and glancing at the bare wall, eyes tracing over the wooden panels, counting each grain as she does. 

“I’m sure. So what’s the real reason you don’t want to go to this feast? Jaskier drags you around to all his other parties, why not go to this one?” Geralt asks. Visenya’s eyes flicker back to Geralt. Her mind is blank, yet brimming with a million different words and phrases that jumble together until she can hardly find any words to speak. 

“I guess I’m not a fan of weddings or anything related to them.” is all she can say. “It’s not a big deal, just a weird tick I guess.” She nods her head, trying to make the words seem convincing to both her and Geralt. But it’s impossible to swallow the lump forming in her throat, nearly suffocating as Westeros hits her mind, the calamitous memories physically painful. 

“Bad experience?” 

_Her face still sour from the fight with Robb, nearly breaking her jaw from how tightly she kept it clenched._

_Lady Catelyn looking shrewd and nervous, but slowly softening to Talissa and Robb’s relationship._

_Everyone celebrating and getting drunk in the room._

“I’ve never been a good dancer,” she says, the words are soft and light, a tentative smile forming on her face. 

_Robb falling to the ground, like a pincushion for crossbow bolts, choking on his blood despite being dead the second he entered the keep._

_The camp burning._

_Everyone around her dying._

“And if I promised you wouldn’t have to dance?” Geralt says, leaning towards Visenya.

_Her heart dropping when the slaughter started, frozen like a statue in the dead of winter, bolted to the floor and unmoving._

_Screams lighting up the room, ricocheting off the walls as they were stabbed, bludgeoned, and strangled._

_Greywind locked up outside, unable to help and dying alone, butchered like a pig._

“You seem desperate for my presence there, Geralt of Rivia.” Visenya teases.

_The wail that ripped through her throat, leaving her drinking her own blood and tears._

_The pit in her stomach as her legs gave out._

_Their snears and taunting words as the world grew dark._

“If I have to suffer the night sober, I would prefer good company.” His lips pull into a smirk that’s lopsided, making his left eye crinkle an inch further than the right. 

_And that little piece of her who wished she had died with the rest of her family 17 years ago._

“And you couldn’t think of anyone else?” Visenya replies with a smile on her face that grows, eyes bright as Westeros and all it’s demons dim, leaning her chin onto the palm of her hand. 

“Well I’d bring my horse, but I don’t foresee them allowing Roach into the palace.”

“No, I imagine that wouldn’t go over too well.” 

Visenya sighs deeply, closing her eyes as she does, resolve breaking with each passing second that Geralt looks at her. 

“Do you think Jaskier would give me any say in my dress?” 

The door flings open, crashing into the wooden wall and causing it to shake for a moment. 

“Have no fear, My Lady, I’ve already got the perfect one!” 

##  **o0o0o0o**

The water is scalding hot, steam rising from the water and dissipating into the air. But it doesn’t burn, not in the way it should, instead every muscle in her body relaxes the second the it touches her skin. Small waves ripple through the water as her body twists and turns into a comfortable position. A small sigh leaves her mouth, echoing in the smaller room only to be swallowed by the door opening and closing.

“I don’t need help bathing.” Visenya says, weaving annoyance and mild anger in each word. 

Just one moment alone would be nice.

“And I’m not here to offer it, I just wanted to quickly discuss a few things,” Jaskier says, completely ignoring any warning signs and moving further into the room. 

“And then you’ll be out of my hair?” Visenya says, water splashing out of the tub and onto the floor as she pinches the bridge of her nose. 

“Well funny you should say that, actually…” She doesn’t need to turn around to see how his brows are furrowed, eyes unsure and a touch afraid that Visenya might fly off the handle. He’s never fully learned all her triggers yet, but to be fair, neither has she. 

She groans, loudly, sinking as far into the water as much as the tub would physically allow, wishing to be swallowed into an abyss. Always something with the hair, whether it’s pleads to let him style it or to tell him why she keeps dyeing it. 

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Jaskier exclaims, in an attempt to defend himself, feigning innocence he doesn’t possess when it comes to meddling. 

“I don’t have to. The answer is still no.” Visenya’s voice is firm and stern, unmovable like a stone wall. 

His footsteps echo in the room, the heels on the boots clicking against the wood flooring as he approaches, each step tentative and slow. 

“Well that just isn’t acceptable, you won’t even give a gentleman the simple opportunity to--” 

“Just tell me what you want so I can tell you no again” Visenya interrupts Jaskier, breathing heavily through her nose. 

“Alright, alright, tough crowd--”

“Jaskier!”

“Okay, alright, your hair! I wanted to talk about that.” Jaskier says, voice raising in volume as many octaves it did. “How do I say this while still keeping my life… it looks, well-- like a wild animal lives there and has lived there its whole life.”

The water splashes and ripples as her hand breaks through the stillness, joining the rest of her body beyond her head and the tops of her shoulders underwater. Jaskier holds his breath, waiting for Visenya to either tell him to fuck off or pretend he doesn’t exist at all. 

“I know.”

Jaskiers loudly exhales, physically deflating. 

“So I was thinking, what if we made it not look like that for the feast? You really should look your best before a monarch.” Visenya turns her head and glares at Jaskier. “I know you dye your hair, heavens know why, so I was just thinking what if you...washed it out.” 

“So you want me to wear my natural hair color for the feast?” Visenya clarifies, her voice not indicating anything she’s feeling. 

“Yes, exactly!” Jaskier exclaims, tone becoming more jovial and ecstatic, bouncing on his feet as he does. 

“No.”

“But--”

“I said no.” 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

“I said no Jaskier.” Visenya growls, the edges of the wooden tub crack under the pressure of her grip, splitters getting pushed under her nails. 

“Don’t be so dramatic, let’s see what color your roots are--” Jaskier moves closer, hands outstretched, desperate to see the silver hair shining under the dry brown. Visenya grits her teeth, anger pulsing under her skin, mind going white as all the sound in the room silences for a painstakingly long moment. 

“I said, no!” The words are piercing and sharp, nearly leaving both of their ears bleeding. The walls shake, the structure of the building itself rejecting the shrill words rolling off of Visenya's mouth. Her eyes flash like fire, burning anything in its wake; it’s dangerous and untamed, wildfire barely contained in two eyes.

Her hand flies up in the air, palm nearly meeting Jaskier’s cheek, but he manages to duck out of the way, stepping back far enough to avoid the slap, the residual heat radiating from her hand nearly singeing his hair. With wide eyes, baby blues watching her with bewilderment and a small tinge of something else- something she never wants him or anyone else to ever look at her with again. 

Fear.

Visenya inhales sharply, simply staring at her own hand with dazed eyes. It’s still hot, she’s still hot. The previously scalding water that had begun to cool, heats up again with a vengeance, boiling wildly around her. Small beads of sweat form at her temple, the room growing smaller with each sharp breath Jaskier takes. 

“I’ll just-- I’ll just leave you to it, just… forget I asked, I guess,” he says, the words jumbling and melting together, nearly disappearing into the wooden walls that seem to close in. 

**_Click._ **

Just as quickly as he entered the room, he exits, leaving behind nothing but the faint smell of his perfume and hair styling product. The room is silent, unbearably so. Visenya turns, water languidly splashing, her back facing the door as she stares at the bare wall, eyes glazing as she attempts to focus on every small detail of the wood. Her mind is blank, yet at the same time it’s a storm, ferociously raging in her head, until her ship is pulled under, thoughts drowning her. 

“Fuck!” The palm of her hand smacks against the water, a barrage of droplets sticking to the sweat beads. A growl of anger and frustration leaves her mouth as she thrusts her hands forward, creating a wave that forces a large amount of water to spill onto the ground, forming a small puddle of anger and guilt. 

Regret weighs heavily on her, like wearing a suit of full plate in the middle of the ocean. She shouldn’t have snapped at Jaskier that way, she wishes she hadn’t. He’s just trying to help, to pull Visenya out of this hole she’s happily buried herself in, clawing at the dirt with perfectly manicured hands and a velvet outfit, humming a sweet melody as he digs. She’d yelled before: threatened to hurt him in every way imaginable, screamed so loud her voice nearly vanished. She’d smacked his chest and shoulders under the guise of seriousness with a sly smirk playing on the corner of her lips. And he took it in stride, laughing it off with a charming smile and a witty quip, bouncing back instantaneously, because she never fully knocked him down. 

She tries to believe this isn’t any different, that she’ll walk out of this room, only to be bombarded by Jaskier’s incessant teasing. But no amount of rose-tinted lenses can bury her in that delusion, because this time is different. She could see the way he looked at her, the way he crumbled under the fire in her eyes and rage simmering under her skin.

Her fury in that moment was harsh, but true, and very much directed at him with intent to harm. All because he wanted to see her hair. How could he ever understand that it’s more than that to her. How does she explain how the same silver strands that crown her a Targaryen princess, something that marked her a paragon of her ancestors, but a pariah to the living. She’d never be able to explain how it was the one unmistakable trait that marked her as the daughter of the man who stole away Winterfell’s princess, staining her a traitor to all of Westeros. 

No one here knows who House Targaryen was or what her ancestors did -- both horrible and great. And maybe it’s better that way. To wipe her home and family name out of her memories, drown Westeros and all the hurt and pain and misery that came with it until she can’t remember anything prior to Blaviken. 

Because what did they achieve, what did any of them really achieve? Aegon the Conqueror along with Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen formed the Seven Kingdoms. They brought war and then peace, only for that to be lost 300 years later due to the madness of a single man, that apparently bled into his eldest son.

With Fire and Blood, they took what they wanted and bathed the rest in dragon fire as they reigned calamity upon their enemies. Some were kind and fair, but most were cruel and callous, seeing themselves higher than the rest because their eyes shone like amethysts with hair threaded from silver.

What did being the daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen ever give her, except for despair at the loss of the family he abandoned to the whims of a madman. What did being the granddaughter of the Mad King Aerys give her, beyond the crippling fear that would leave her awakening in the darkest part of the night covered in sweat, fears that she’d descend to that same madness that haunted him. That she’d lose the ability to control her own mind until she was put down like a dog, something Robert Baratheon would’ve done happily as the people whispered ‘ _What a shame she went mad_.’

What did being a Targaryen ever really bring her if not scars and lingering ghosts? 

The last time she fully embraced her blood, standing as tall and regal as a Targaryen should, how she believed they would, she burned down half a village.

No, it’s better this way. 

Even if it’s _just_ hair. 

She sinks further into the boiling water, breathing in the steam like the smoke from a fire, praying and hoping she would just disappear. She continues down until her shoulders and underwater, then her neck, until the back of her head touches the bottom of the tub, eyes closed as her water floats around her face. And surrounded by the boiling water, washing away the day and all her mistakes, salty tears leave her eyes, being swept away into the water. 


	11. Of Delusions and Grandeur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy did this one take a reallllllyyyy long time for me to write. I hope it’s worth it! Also, I apologize for any mistakes, I probably didn’t proofread as many times as I should’ve 🤍

When she was a little girl, Visenya was called into Lord Stark's study nearly every day. She'd shuffle into the room, hiding a coy smirk and mischievous giggles behind a straight face, unable to look him in the eyes as she fumbled through unconvincing lies. At the time she thought herself the finest liar in the Seven Kingdoms, ego growing larger with each doe-eyed look, and words of denial laced with feigned innocence. And each time she stepped out of the room, she'd miss the small smile pulling on Lord Stark's mouth, eyes glittering with amusement as melancholy consumed him, reminding him of times when he was much smaller and the world much bigger.

With age, each step into that study grew less intimidating, the walls growing shorter as she grew longer. At some point between six and ten it changed, instead of swiping pastries from the kitchens, she was hiding away with Jon, waving around a training sword that's too large and too sharp; and inevitably, one morning a large cut blossomed on her face. She went into the study sobbing like an infant while holding a medical cloth to her wound, fears of getting in trouble making her anxiety soar high into the cloudy sky. But instead of sour eyes and trembling lips, she left with a beaming smile on her face and orders to begin training with Ser Rodrik. Immediately she was ushered to Maester Luwin and put on bed rest for the day - Theon called her a stupid girl trying to act like a man, whilst Jon brought her wildflowers from a field. She made sure to hit Theon extra hard during their sparring sessions.

Then there was the time she tackled Theon and beat him bloody when she was a girl of ten and two after he insulted her father; wailing like a banshee, screaming into the universe that Theon and his family were cowards. Her small fists beat into him with as much tact and technique as a wild animal. Everything he ate for a week straight had a metallic aftertaste, while Visenya wore her smugness like a crown. Lord Stark gave her a stern lecture about not hitting people just because they make you angry, yet she couldn't help but preen like a bird when noticing the glint of amusement in his icy eyes. Robb would laugh every time he saw Theon for a full month, meanwhile, Theon's glares didn't disappear until his final scar did. Only then did he begin to acknowledge Visenya's presence again. He never brought up her family again, and she returned the favor.

Of course, she could never forget the time she was brought in - shivering like a leaf, looking as if she'd slept in the deepest ocean - two guards at her side as they escorted her. Lord Stark dismissed them immediately, waiting with patient eyes and a kind smile for Visenya to explain where she'd run off to. The dam broke and she began sobbing, blubbering nonsense that not even she understood. But Lord Stark didn't yell at her, demanding she speak clearly. Instead, he stood up, chair scraping loudly against the floor, and carefully approached Visenya. Kneeling to be eye level with her smaller form, he just hugged her, encompassing her with the fatherly warmth she couldn't remember ever getting from Rhaegar Targaryen. Maybe he did hug her when she was a child and the world wasn't crumbling around them, but if he did, she couldn't remember. So she just hugged Lord Stark so tightly she wouldn't be surprised if he had red marks where her arms were.

Then only four years later, she was called in again, only this time Lady Stark stood beside him, strained smiles and stony eyes greeting her, and held tightly in Lord Stark's hand was a letter, the parchment nearly ripping in half from his grip. It was nearly identical to the one she sent off three days prior, with Essos it's destination and Targaryen the receiver, signed with a desperation to connect with blood. Lord Stark gently explained to her that the King may see it as treason if she was found to be contacting the only other remaining Targaryen's, finding the reason to do what he's been itching to do since the rebellion. And Visenya couldn't bring herself to tear apart her family by selfish actions, not after everything they've done for her. That day she didn't walk out triumphant or ecstatic, instead, she burned with rage and shame; rage at the world and shame at herself for caring so much. She never tried to contact Daenerys again.

The final time she ever walked into that study was a week before Robert Baratheon was set to arrive at Winterfell. Lady Stark wasn't there, in fact, no one else was anywhere near the vicinity. He told her to sit down, not willing to delve into the reason that she was there until she complied. Ned Stark was never one to beat around the bush, finding it more practical to just say what needs to be said and move on. That was the first time Visenya ever saw him fumble over his words. Finally, he managed to tell her what exactly the King had demanded when he was in Winterfell. He wanted Visenya married off and out of Winterfell. She was a statue at that moment, having a million things she wanted to say, but simply nodded, turned, and left the room without another word. A day after the King arrived, so did her potential suitors. The King insisted he should be the one to choose her husband, completely crushing the dwindling hope that her future husband wouldn't be so terrible. The decision ended up being between a child of ten and two and a boy only a year older than that, both from two minor houses in the South; until Robb interrupted - respectfully of course - and declared that he would marry Visenya. She couldn't decide what was worse, the prospect of marrying someone she sees as a brother or watching Jon's crestfallen face. Jon wouldn't look at her until the night before he left for the Night's Watch, and she couldn't look Robb in the eyes until he did.

This time, standing in front of the door that leads into the room Jaskier and Geralt reside in, with damp hair and clothes sticking to wet skin, she is a storm. A flurry of emotions raging in her mind; anger, sadness, melancholy, and fear melting together until she can't feel anything, the sensory overload leaving her numb. She eyes the empty hall like an animal stuck in a cage, her heart pounding, seconds away from bolting out of the inn and never returning, living in the forest as far from people as possible. But then the sound of Jaskier talking and Geralt's angry mumbling filters into Visenya's ears. Her anxiety increases, but the storm softens as she straightens her back, all thoughts of running suddenly gone.

_ 'The blood of the dragon must not be afraid.' _

Visenya sends a prayer to the Warrior for courage and the Crone to give her the wisdom to not let her anger control her, not wanting to lash out again. She reaches a hand up, pausing it midair for a second. With one last silent prayer, she grasps the handle in hand and pushes open the door.

"--quit your complaining, you look great! Scary and dashing, what more could a Witcher want?" Jaskier says to Geralt, waving his hands wildly. Geralt stands in the room, wearing clothes suited for minor nobility, a stark difference from his usual armor, a scowl chiseled into his beautiful face.

He's in shades of blue: a Stark blue cotton jacket hugging his biceps, a stone grey shirt tucked into his leather pants that hug his toned legs in the most flattering way, wolf pendant hanging from his neck. His white hair is tied back in its usual fashion but appears to have been brushed, clearly the doing of Jaskier. Despite his obvious discomfort, he's like a piece of art, looking like the subject of a painting that hangs in a noble lady's room.

As the door clicks behind her, Geralt and Jaskier look at her. Jaskier's eyes immediately flicker away, face draining of all color as he takes a small step backward. It's small, the change in his demeanor, but it's enough to break Visenya's heart that she thought had been encapsulated by stone and ice. A million words nearly fall from her mouth, at the very tip of her tongue, but she finds herself losing the ability to speak. So instead she turns her attention to Geralt, feigning the smirk that usually naturally falls on her face.

"You clean up nicely. If I didn't know any better, I wouldn't think you were just covered from head to toe in monster guts," she teases, willing her voice to sound as light as air, not at all weighed down by the anxiety in her heart. Geralt narrows his eyes, seeing through her façade the second she places it on, but he says nothing. Instead, he shrugs his shoulders and grunts, turning back to Jaskier.

"See, I told you it's fine. Now Jane, be a dear and put on that dress in the corner." Jaskier moves through the room like water, stepping behind Geralt and pushing him towards the exit, making Visenya step further into the room, flattening against the wall to allow them to slip past her. Geralt's shoulder brushes against her, and it feels like electricity. Not that she'd ever tell him that. Meanwhile, Jaskier is looking anywhere and everywhere, as long as he doesn't have to look at her.

The door clicks behind them, the shuffling of feet gone, leaving Visenya alone with her thoughts, again. She shuffles over to the other side of the room, seeing a bundle of dark fabric that must be her dress. She closes the distance, holding the fabric between her fingers. It's a deep purple and almost softer than anything she's ever touched. Sighing, she begins to pull her clothes off of her body, haphazardly throwing them onto the ground. She holds up the dress, the ends touching the floor; it's beautiful, with a silver belt cinching in the waist and a slit up the leg, allowing free range of movement. And for a moment she thinks Jaskier chose these colors on purpose, purple for the eyes she used to recognize, and silver for the hair that used to flow freely, but that's impossible. How could he know the importance of those colors when he doesn't even know her real name?

So she pushes those thoughts away and begins the process of stepping into the dress and pulling it on. The fabric drapes loosely off the shoulder, the back flowing into a sort of cloak style. It's light as air, moving in perfect sync with her, ideal for looking pretty but also loose enough to allow her to fight if necessary; nothing like the heavy and restricting dresses of the North. She clasps the belt, adding some shape to her body so it no longer looks like she's drowning in excess fabric. She holds Renfri's broach, the emeralds, and rubies shining and bright compared to her dress. She pins it in the place it always is, over her left breast.

She puts both hands under her hair, starting to pull it out from under the dress when there's a knock at the door. She starts to turn, the dress moving around her feet like a soft breeze, when the door clicks, creaking as it opens.

"Jaskier wanted me to bring you--" Geralt says, trailing off as Visenya turns to face him, the dress fully on display. A smile pulls on her previously dour face, as the last of her damp hair falls over her shoulders. In his hands are a pair of velvet black boots, the heels higher than her usual travel shoes, with a silver buckle adorning them, not as fine as what high royalty would wear, but certainly nicer than her everyday ones. His gold eyes rake up and down her body, mouth slightly agape.

"My shoes? Thank you, I was hoping I wouldn't have to go to this feast barefoot." She saunters over to him, making sure to take her time with every step. She stops right in front of him, tilting her head up to look at his face, Geralt's large form looming over her. His eyes follow her, tilting his head down as well.

She grabs onto the shoes, pulling until Geralt grip on them slacks. Without moving her eyes from his, she slips each shoe on, the inside lined with a soft fabric, making them hug her feet comfortably. Geralt breaths out a laugh, but says nothing else.

"You look nice." he finally says, his voice rougher and lower than usual, causing Visenya's eyes to light up as he struggles to swallow for a moment.

"You don't look too bad either." She raises a single brow, slowly raising herself to stand on the tips of her toes, inching closer to Geralt's face.

"Hmm." He just grunts, leaning down to close the distance between them. And when their lips are seconds away from touching she veers to the left, placing a ghost of a kiss on the corner of his lips.

"See you out there." She leaves the room, closing the door behind her, a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

**_ o0o0o0o _ **

"--keep your head down and pretend to be a mute, can't have anyone figuring out who you are," Jaskier mutters to Geralt as soon as they step into the Great Hall. Most of tonight's guests have already arrived, standing in small clusters that are interspersed throughout the large room. They're rowdy, much more like the Northerners that Visenya's accustomed to, tankards of Cintran Ale in the hands of every person. They're dressed in a wide variety of colors, most of the women wearing dresses made from velvet and much warmer fabrics than the chiffon that languidly hangs off Visenya. A season of jewel tones surround them: reds, greens, and purples as far as the eye can see.

"Geralt of Rivia, the mighty Witcher!" a voice exclaims, a slew of loud drunken shouts from the nearby crowds following the proclamation. A man in forest green finery that looks slippery to the touch begins to approach them. Well dressed, but certainly not the most expensive-looking man in the room. His shoulder-length thick black hair is pushed away from his face, a matching thick beard covering his chin. Light reflects off of the greying hairs that pepper it, betraying how old he is. His eyes, that are as green as his tunic, scan the three of them, lingering on Visenya but ultimately he focuses on Geralt.

"Oh shit," Jaskier mutters, glancing around the room, smiling and waving awkwardly at everyone looking at them.

"I haven't seen you since the plague," he says, silver tankard in hand as he draws closer, an easy smile on his face.

"Good times, Mousesack," Geralt says, his tone and posture rigid and uncomfortable; never one for crowds it would seem. The man doesn't seem put off by Geralt's dour demeanor, instead, he breathes out a laugh, pointing at Geralt with his tankard.

"I have missed your sour complexion. I feared this would be a dull affair, but now that the White Wolf is here, perhaps all is not lost." he closes the distance, grabbing ahold of both of his shoulders, the smile on his face falling just an inch. "Why are you dressed like a sad silk trader?"

Geralt turns to Jaskier, his signature scowl on his face. Jaskier just turns to look at them, playing with his fingers, eyes wide and nervous, but ultimately silent.

"And who might this be," the man says, moving his attention from Geralt to Visenya. She grants him a smile, much closer to Geralt's stiff one than his easy-going smile. He holds out a hand and she shakes it, trying to match his firm grip.

"Jane."

"Mousesack, a pleasure to make your acquaintance." He's charming, with a wide grin on his face and bright eyes. There's also a spark when he makes contact with her. Not the kind that plagues sappy romance novels, but a literal spark of...something that leaves the hair on her arms standing and her spine-tingling.

"Mousesack is a druid." Geralt answers her unspoken question, looking between the two of them with a blank expression.

"I see, and you and Geralt are friends I presume?" Visenya asks, slipping her hand from his tight grasp.

"Old friends, it's been what...50 years?" Mousesack says, glancing at Geralt for confirmation.

"Something like that." Geralt says, scanning the crowd. Visenya turns to him, eyes widening a fraction.

"How old are you exactly?" She asks, eyes narrowing. It never occurred to her that a Witcher would age differently. The passage of time here never occurs to her much. She goes to sleep at night and wakes up at dawn, spending the day traveling, sitting in inns, or looking threatening and mean to potential aggressors, only to start the cycle over again. How much time has passed since she first arrived? Everything seems to pass in a blur, she never bothers to think about it.

"Over 100," he gruffly responds, glancing over at her before returning his eyes elsewhere.

"You don't keep track?" Visenya asks mind short-circuiting momentarily. How is that even possible, to be over 100 years old, yet not look a day over 30? It has to be a side effect of being a Witcher, it's the only logical explanation.

"Why would I?"

"I guess when you're that old it doesn't matter," she says, brows furrowing as her eyes narrow.

"I never thought I'd see the day that someone matched your dour attitude. Come, walk with me," Mousesack merrily exclaims, words slurring together. He flashes Visenya another smile as he begins to effortlessly move through the crowd of people. Geralt follows beside him, Visenya keeping pace with him.

"I've been advising the Skelligen crown for years. A tad rough around the edges, but they're of the earth. Like me," Mousesack says, people, cheering and holding up drinks towards him as he passes.

"Old and crusty," Geralt says. "How long before this horse-trading is done? I find royalty best taken in... small doses."

Visenya snorts as she observes the room around her, trying to memorize every tiny detail. There's a high table at the very end of the hall, with a large throne in the center, like a shining prized jewel. It's nothing near as magnificent as how she imagines the Iron Throne to be, but it's large none-the-less. Sitting by the empty throne is a girl, closer to Visenya's age than not if her appearance is anything to go by. With pale skin that glows in the dim candlelight, her golden-silvery hair compliments her beautifully. It's in an ornate braid on the back of her head, falling over her shoulder, a gold ribbon weaving in and out of it. Her emerald green dress is adorned with a large gold necklace, the small emerald jewels in it dancing in the candlelight, a delicate gold circlet resting on her head. Their eyes lock, and Visenya finds herself entranced by her bright blue eyes, unable to force herself to be aware of her current surroundings.

"I wouldn't count on leaving before dawn. These suitors will vie all night for Princess Pavetta's hand. Marrying into this monarchy is a mighty prize. Who wouldn't want to be king of the most powerful force in the land?" Mousesack says, his only acknowledgment of Geralt's first comment is the small smirk on his lips.

"Hm. So, which one of these little shits is your coin on?"

"Come with me, there's much for you to see. It's not a fair bet. That red-headed scanderlout over there, Crach An Craite, will marry Pavetta. The Lioness has already arranged it with the boy's uncle, Eist Tuirseach." Mousesack says, pointing towards a large man with fiery hair and a matching beard that stands with a large crowd of people, easily one of the loudest people in the room.

Princess Pavetta's fair face wears a frown, similar to her own, but not at all with the fire Visenya holds. Instead, she looks more like a scared girl than a defiant dragon. Not at all unlike herself all those years ago, when she sat at the High Table beside Lord Stark in Winterfell, with weaves of traditional Northern braids in her hair as Robert Baratheon auctioned her off to the highest bidder, like a prized broodmare. But that's the life of a princess, exiled or not, your love is sold off for political and monetary gain. Marriage is never about love for royalty. Yet Visenya's heart aches for the girl who looks like a scared doe, rather than the daughter of the Lioness of Cintra, who fought and won her first battle at only fourteen years of age.

"She doesn't seem too happy about it," Visenya mutters, glancing back at Mousesack. He meets her stern gaze, bright expression dimming just a hair.

"No, I'm afraid not. Princess Pavetta is much softer than her mother."

"They almost always are," Visenya says, eyes moving back to Pavetta, feeling as if she's entranced. Something weeps inside her, shaking so fervently her body almost vibrates. If things were different, that would've been, no, should've been Visenya. But could've, would've, and should've been is nothing when destiny dictates that your world be nothing but ash and ruin. So she snaps her gaze away, unwilling to look at the image of what is always just out of reach.

Mousesack and Geralt continue speaking in low voices, Visenya following them like a ghost, lost in her head. A few minutes in, Geralt moves away, leaving her alone with Mousesack.

"You seem quite focused on the Princess tonight," he muses, pulling Visenya from her chaos.

"She's the most exciting thing in the room right now," Visenya says, raising a single brow at Mousesack, shoving away the sinking feeling that something horrible is going to happen.

"Moving past that insult to my character--" Visenya snorts. "I feel as though it is something more. I can see it in your eyes, you feel for the girl."

"It's hard not to. A man no matter how well-traveled and wise he is will never understand what it feels like to have your whole life laid out for you by someone else. Being sold into a marriage with someone not a good match for you only hurts worse when it's your own mother."

"Personal experience?" Mousesack raises a brow, mouth in a straight line.

"Nonsense, my mother died when I was a child," Visenya says, moving her attention away from him and towards the crowd.

His eyebrows raise causing small lines to form on his forehead, slight shock painting his features. He purses his lips, opening his mouth, only to close it again.

"The life of nobility." he finally says, letting out a sigh as he shakes his head.

"The life of a woman, no matter their status," Visenya corrects him, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

"All rise for Her Majesty, The Lioness: Queen Calanthe, of Cintra!" a man near the Main Hall entrance cries out, silencing any of the noise in the room.

"Luckily for the girl, horrible husbands tend to disappear rather quickly when you're royalty." With that last comment, Visenya disappears into the crowd, gliding past noble ladies and lords as she maneuvers towards the secluded corner Geralt claimed as his own.

Chairs scrape as everyone scrambles to stand and Jaskier quickly runs over to where the other minstrels are, lute in hand. Nearly in perfect synch, the entire room turns towards the entrance. Shortly after, a middle-aged woman strides through the parted crowd, a smirk on her blood-stained lips. She wears gold armor that's dull from the dark red blood that's splattered over it, fresh from a recent battle. Her dark brown hair is braided away from her face, but not as neatly as expected for an occasion like this, instead, it's wild and pulled apart, in knots and gnarls with dry blood. She holds a helmet in hand that she quickly tosses to one of the many people in the procession following behind her.

"Beer!" she exclaims, grabbing a tankard from the hands of a pompous noble as she passes him, taking a swig from it immediately. "Apologies, noble sers. A few upstart townships in the South had to be reminded of who was Queen," she says, voice oozing with confidence and a tinge of arrogance. This causes an uproar of cheering from the nobles around Visenya, waving their tankards in her direction as golden ale spills onto the floor.

"Fighting is good for one's blood and humor. Ready your suitor's tales of glory, good lords. My daughter is eager to have this over--" she says, taking another drink from her mug and turning towards the high table. "--as am I." She mutters. "Bard, music!" she yells, waving a finger in the air, towards Jaskier's general direction, stomping up the marble stairs. Jaskier starts the first note of a song, his sweet and delicate singing voice ringing through the room before the Queen swiftly cuts him off.

"No, no, no; a jig! You can save your bloody maudlin nonsense for my funeral!" she exclaims, rolling her eyes and continuing up the steps. Jaskier sighs, before counting down from three, beginning a much more upbeat song that swiftly blends into the background as the room's noise levels grow. People begin to fill the gap they'd created for the Queen, forming small rowdy groups.

Finally, she closes the distance between her and Geralt, grabbing a tankard of ale from a table as she does. She stands beside him, posture as stiff and straight as his, taking a drink from the cup, eyeing the party. She watches the Queen as she leans down to speak with her daughter, hands resting on the table, her words too quiet for Visenya to discern. Suddenly a man slams his tankard of ale on the table

"You lying little shite!" the man that Mousesack labeled as Crach An Craite yells. He stands to his full height, towering over a scrawnier man he's arguing with. "You never faced so much as a bad meal in your life, nevermind a manticore!"

"I've had manticores thrice as fat and ugly as the likes of you perish under my steel," the second man spits back, unfettered by Crach's intimidating aura.

"Under your bullshit, more like. How many stingers has it got?"

"Two."

"Ha. Go away and shite, it's got five. I know, I've actually killed one." Crach An Craite spits at him. He scoffs and turns away from the other noble, as the crowd around them grows more excited as the argument begins to escalate.

The smaller man rushes forward, grabbing onto Crach An Craite's tunic, the small crowd around them rushes in as well, eager for an excuse to fight.

"Enough!" the Queen exclaims, stopping everyone in their tracks. "We have a renowned guest tonight. Perhaps he can declare which esteemed lord is telling the truth" she says, walking down the steps. In unison, nearly every turns to look at Geralt, and in turn, Visenya as well.

"Neither." Geralt says, not bothering to meet anyone's gaze.

"Are you calling me a liar, old man?" Crach An Craite mutters, face nearly identical in color to his hair.

"The Butcher of Blaviken bleeds utter nonsense," the smaller one says, dismissively waving his hand in Geralt's direction as he leans against a nearby chair. Geralt glances towards Jaskier, who is frantically shaking his head, with puppy dog eyes and a slight pout his only weapon. Geralt sighs, moving his attention back to the impatient nobles.

"Perhaps the lords encountered a rare subspecies of manticore."

The room is completely silent after that, the tension in the room quickly dropping. Visenya breathes out, clenched fist relaxing at her side. The Queen breaks the silence, loud laughter leaving her mouth, gaze solely on Geralt.

"Perhaps our esteemed guest would like to entertain us with how he slayed the elves at the edge of the world?" The room immediately breaks out into cheers. Fists pound on tables, tankards waving in the air, and nobles yelling so loudly their lungs might collapse. Visenya raises her brow, glancing at Jaskier with a disapproving gaze. That stupid song is nothing but embellished falsehoods, so wrong it's nearly infuriating every time Visenya hears it.

"There was no slaying. I had my ass kicked by a ragged band of elves. I was about to have my throat cut, when Filavandrel let me go." Geralt speaks up, silencing the room instantly.

Instead, their cheers are replaced with boos and loud groans, nobles shaking their heads at Geralt.

"But what about the song?" the shorter man exclaims.

"At least when Filavandrel's blade kissed my throat, I didn't shit myself. Which is all I can hope for you good Lords, at your final breath, a shitless death." Geralt exclaims, bringing his tankard to his mouth, "--but I doubt it," he mutters, his words once again riling up the crowd. And if she didn't know any better, Visenya thinks Geralt just might like the fanfare, even if he won't admit it.

"It would've been your blade at Filavandrel's throat if you'd been there your majesty. Not that any elven bastard would crawl from their lair to meet you on the field." Lord Eist speaks up, a smug smirk on his face as he looks at the Queen. She looks at him, preening under all the attention with a smug look on her face. The movements cause the dried blood to crack and crumble onto the floor.

"Any man willing to paint himself in the shadow of his failures will make for far more interesting conversation this night. Come, Witcher, take a seat by my side while I change."

Geralt simply grunts, rolling his eyes as the Queen turns away, moving up the stairs and disappearing through a side door, a handmaiden following dutifully behind her.

"Come on," Geralt grabs onto Visenya's hand, dragging her behind him.

"She didn't invite me."

"Well she invited me, and I'm not going through anymore suffering alone." Geralt says in between clenched teeth.

"How polite, throwing me straight into the lion's den just so you won't have to face it alone. I never knew you to be so thoughtful Geralt."

He simply grunts in response, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He moves up the set of stairs, boots pounding under the stone ground. One of the men that came in with the Queen directs Geralt to a chair beside the throne. Silently, he pulls out his chair, glaring at the finely dressed nobleman that is sitting in the chair by him. The man meets his gaze, and to his credit, manages to remain expressionless. However, he still stands, his legs wobbling just the slightest, and moves to the other side of the throne, sitting by the Princess. Geralt nods his head towards the now vacant chair. A smirk forms on Visenya's lips as she moves behind him and into her new seat.

"You get to deal with the Queen if she's unhappy with my presence."

**_ o0o0o0o _ **

The feast is even duller from the High Table. It hasn't even been a full hour, and yet all that's happened is a few arguments, suitors vying for the hand of the princess, and the Queen speaking with Geralt. Visenya sits in silence, scanning the crowd and listening in on the conversations around her. There's still that sinking feeling in her stomach, a dreadful fear she's unable to escape telling her this is all going to end horribly. Crach An Craite stands up from his seat, when suddenly the door is slammed open, a man in full plate armor barreling through, swiftly taking out the two guards by him. Like an unruly bull, he stomps to the center of the room, lowering himself into a kneel. The room is completely still, as Visenya leans forward, grip tightening on the knife in her left hand.

"Forgive my late intrusion, Your Majesty, and for the misunderstanding with your guards. Please! I come in peace. I need but one moment of your time. I am Lord Urcheon of Erlenwald and I have come to claim your daughter's hand in marriage," he says, bowing his helmet-covered head.

The room is filled with gasps of shock, women all around covering their mouths in horror. The Queen becomes as stiff as a rock, veins faintly protruding from her neck. Out of the corner of her eye, Visenya sees Pavetta go completely still, yet her face doesn't convey the same horror it has with every suitor before.

"A knight... of no renown... from a backwater hamlet... who dares to enter my court without revealing his face?" Queen Calanthe spits out, shaking in rage as her words burn like acid.

"I apologize, Your Majesty. A knight's oath prevents me from revealing my face until the sounding of the twelfth bell." Urcheon says, not sounding shaken by the threatening aura swimming around Queen Calanthe.

"Bollocks to that," Lord Eist exclaims, moving forward and knocking the helmet off Urcheon's head. The metal clatters against the ground, echoing in the room, as the knight is revealed to be a...hedgehog man. Visenya leans further out of her seat, nearly laying on the table. Gold eyes wide in shock as she examines each and every needle that protrudes from his face, tracing his animal-like nose and beady black eyes. He looks around the room, very much looking like a cornered animal.

"Witcher--" the Queen hisses, "kill it."

"No," Geralt says, intently watching Urcheon.

"Whatever the price," she continues.

"This is no monster."

"I order you," she continues, the same patience she previously possessed slipping away.

"This knight has been cursed." Geralt says, unable to be swayed by her words that hide serious threats.

"You're as useless as the rest of them," she seethes. "Slay this beast!" she exclaims to the rest of the room.

Two guards immediately move towards Urcheon, weapons in hand. With swift and highly skilled movements, he disarms the guards, knocking them to the ground.

"Lioness of Cintra, I come to claim what is rightfully mine! Pavetta. By the Law of Surprise." he yells, pointing towards the Princess. More guards approach, and to his credit, he attempts to fight back but is quickly outnumbered. He's thrown to the ground, blood pouring out of his...snout. One of the guards lifts their halberd, seconds away from slicing into them. Geralt quickly jumps from his chair, moving past Visenya and down the steps at the speed of light.

"No!" Princess Pavetta exclaims.

At that moment time slowed down. Geralt reaches the scene when the halberd is mid-swing, pulling out his sword and cutting the weapon in half. The top piece slams on the ground and Urcheon catches the bladed part.

It's silent until the Queen breaks it.

"Kill them both!" she yells, pointing at Geralt and Urcheon.

**_ o0o0o0o _ **

Swords ringing, bodies crashing to the ground, and screams ricocheting off the walls into Visenya's ears. It's all familiar. A horror so intrusive and fresh in her mind that feels like only hours ago her whole world crumbled, leaving her vulnerable in a new reality. So different with its magic and dragons, but the same in the way its tragedy claws at her throat, phantom tears following her like the deaths of everyone she ever loved. Like an inescapable curse that continues to stalk her no matter how far or fast she runs. And maybe that's because none of this is real, a delusion she's created in the darkest recesses of her mind, happy enough to grant hope of a better life, yet enough devastation cloaking it to be believable.

She watches in a daze as Geralt moves through the room, dancing with his blade like a master. The porcupine man roars as he charges the oncoming guards, cutting into their flesh with less fluidity than Geralt, yet deadly all the same. Invigoration surging through his body from the White Wolf joining his side, more than happy to slice through anyone who confronts him, whether his foes wield sword or fist. The lords in their fine garb beat, stab, and strangle each other; using the chaos as an opportunity to take down their adversaries. A small group of nobles huddle in the far recesses of the room, cowering and whimpering in fear as the slaughter escalates. Women cry and the minstrels quiver, yet the queen and princess remain at their high table, unmoving. Princess Pavetta watches with glistening blues eyes while the Queen is clenching her jaw so tightly, her face is painted white.

Visenya's hand ghosts over where her blade should be, the empty spot where its sheathe would rest feeling uncomfortably light. A lord drunk on the adrenaline in his veins rushes Visenya, wild like an animal. She knows all too well how this will go if he gets his way: with her bloody and praying for the release of death. But she's not that little girl of five hiding in a crawl space as she listens to her mother's screams of agony. Now she breathes flames each time she talks, eyes like a city turned to ash.

She holds her arm up towards him with an open palm, the movements rigid and not her own, as if an otherworldly creature possesses her. Moments later he slams into her, the width of his neck perfectly fitting in her palm. Automatically her finger closes around him, tightening with each second as she locks him in place. She's emboldened with strength she shouldn't possess, as she raises her arm upwards, his legs dangling in the air, helpless. Gold eyes illuminate, embers of fire she's smothered igniting in that instant, festering pain bursting to the surface. Heat builds, the smell of burning flesh rising in the air, the crackle of skin against fire. He screams, a blood-curdling one that makes Visenya's insides turn. Yet she doesn't release him but holds tighter and tighter until his screams turn to choking, and then silence. With a dull thud, his body drops to the floor, unmoving.

A sharp pain pierces her left side, leaving her staggering forward with an unsteady footing. Howling like a wounded animal, Visenya turns to face her adversary, a heavily armored guard. He jabs towards her, but she manages to move out of the way just in time. She sneers, blood dripping from her mouth. He goes to stab again, but in full plate, he's too slow for her nimble movements. She ducks behind him, grabbing a shard of broken glass from the ground as she does. And before he can comprehend where she is, she stabs the glass into the side of his neck, watching the thick red liquid coat it. He coughs, choking on the blood pouring out of his neck. The guard wobbles, slowly losing his balance as he claws at the air for something to hold onto, then scratching his throat, attempting to save himself. Visenya watches, eyes cold and unfeeling. She lifts her leg and kicks him onto the ground before stepping over his body.

Each footstep thunders in her mind as she presses forward, every face nothing but a blur, and instead of tabards with three proud lions, she sees two blue towers united by a bridge. Every guard and noble that falls is a Northern soldier, with surprise and agony painting their face, while every attacker is a Frey. Sneers carved into their features; screams turning into shouts of glee as they cut through anyone in their way. In a flurry of blood lust, eager to drown her sorrows in the pain of others, she throws punches at everyone within reach, kicking bodies on the floor as they writhe in pain. It's intoxicating, living out her darkest fantasies without a care in the world.

It'll fade, the comedown far worse than the high, but at the moment, it's worth every second of loathing it'll inevitably create. A grunt follows a swift punch to the gut before Visenya grabs a hold of a chair, smashing the wood against the charging noble. His face morphs, no longer a nameless lord, instead, he's one of Walder Frey's sons who sunk his blade in her flesh as his friends shot her down from a distance. The chair breaks into a million pieces as he falls to the ground, unconscious. She roars as the adrenaline pumps higher and higher, the blood running in her veins faster and faster. Geralt appears in the corner of her vision, at some point they move towards each other like magnets, twirling around each other as if they've practiced it a million times. And just as soon as he's there, he disappears into the chaos as Visenya loses herself to the beast inside her.

Another soldier approaches her, a flurry of sword swings and spittle his greeting to her. She dodges out of the way of each of them, moving as if she's the water, her dress fluidly flowing with her. She steps to the side, taking advantage of his blind spot, due to his helmet that obscures part of his vision. She grabs a hold of his sword arm, managing to pull it back far enough to hear a gnarly crack, a loud clang following it, as his sword falls to the marble floor. He sneers at her, but she returns the favor. Yet before she can do anything, another burst of pain shoots through her, and her eyes flit down to the source, a dagger sticking out of her abdomen. She looks up at him as he twists it, before letting go and pushing her away, but instead of falling to the floor to bleed out, she pulls out the blade. Using his surprise to her advantage, she smoothly grabs his sword from the ground, using a maneuver she learned all those years ago in Winterfell to knock his helmet off his head from the back. And as it clangs to the ground, she drives the dagger into his throat.

She stumbles forward, hand clenching her new wound as blood pours out of it. She whirls around, determined to find safety, but a glimpse of auburn curls and Tully blue eyes with a direwolf coat of arms fighting a noble in rich blues captures her attention.

_ Robb. _

Numb to the pain pulsing in her body and the wounds that are dripping with blood, she runs. But it's like walking through thick molasses, feet not moving as fast as they should, no matter how hard she tries to push forward. Desperation rips her apart from the inside out as she tries to stop what's inevitably going to happen, the very same thing she sees in every one of her nightmares. And when she's only a step away, the noble slashes low, throwing Robb off balance, and with one swift plunge of a dagger, he falls limp.

She's too late,  _ again _ .

Her legs are never quite fast enough, reaction time a second too slow, and no matter how hard she tries to do it, she never manages to save Robb.

An ear-piercing screams tears through her throat, or maybe it doesn't, it's hard to hear anything above the ringing in her ears.

The noise is a culmination of a lifetime of sadness, but it's also a battle cry, promising nothing but fire and fury. And as Robb collapses, armor clanging against the ground, she reaches out and grabs the hair of the noble, pulling until there's a distinct crack and a shout of pain, a large chunk of brunette locks her prize. With the snarl of a wolf and tight tension on his head, she wraps her other arm around his neck, and a simple flick of her wrist is all it takes as his neck snaps, body crashing onto the ground.

And Visenya falls too, crumbling into nothing but a shaking form, sobbing so hard she nearly throws up all the contents in her stomach, trapped between the dead bodies of Robb and his killer. Tears mix with blood, staining the floor with her misery.

"Robb!" she cries out, but her voice is nothing more than a croak, getting swept away into the chaos of the fight. "Robb!"

A shaky hand reaches out, moving to brush his hair out of his face, but there's nothing there. And as her tears pour down her cheeks, Robb distorts, wild curls becoming a bald head and Tully blue replaced with bleak brown. She removes her hand as if it burnt her, and scrambles to getaway.

Bodies rush past, moving around her as if she's nothing more than a figment of their imagination. Everything slows down in the room, as salty tears slip into her mouth, dark spots covering her vision.

She blinks; once and then twice. Everything is blurry until it's not.

A sea of dead bodies, suffocating her. She throws a hand up, desperately clawing to escape, But each movement only traps her further under them. She screams, the sound muffled yet clear as day in her mind.

" _ Jane. Jane!" Someone's holding onto her, pressing onto her cheeks, the warmth of soft hands cupping her cheek. "Jane, are you alright?" The voice is distant, yet familiar all the same. _

She blinks again, and once more.

Another scream rips through her throat, tearing apart her vocal cords. She continues to claw, fighting harder against the dead weight that presses heavily against her. Gold meets gold as the light shines in her eyes. The first rays of day hit the side of her face, illuminating the cast of dry blood caked with mud on her face. Eyes flicker from the left to the right, seeing, yet not, at the same time. It doesn't register in her mind, the ocean of death she finds herself swimming in, all she sees is daylight, while everything else is blurry.

_ "Please bring me water or wine, just bring me something!" The familiar voice echoes in Visenya's head, footsteps rapidly tapping against a marble floor following. _

A glint in the light captures her attention, something piercing through her hazy vision. It blends into its environment at first, but with a keener glance, she sees it. With new vigor, she wiggles out of the pit, crawling on all fours, eyes on the prize. Six beats, that's all it takes until she closes in on her fixation. A person, a dead person.

The body doesn't have a head, but she already knows its face, the same one she sees every night in her worst night terrors. Unsteady hands reach out, tracing the cloak clasp, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat inside her. Hot fingertips trace over two direwolves meeting in the center. Then she forms a fist around it, holding so tightly small cuts form on the palm of her hand. No tears pour down her face, spilling onto the fine garb Robb donned for his own funeral, there's nothing left to cry. Her eyes are dry like a Dornish desert, she's cried too much to have any left. A second scream tears out of her mouth, sending any scavenger birds flying away with haste, slicing through the silence of the field that is drenched in dawn. It's harsh and coarse, leaving the ground beneath her quaking in its wake.

_ "What's wrong with her?" A timid woman's voice asks. _

_ "I don't know. Let me see that." There's rustling, ice-cold water hitting her face moments later. "Gods Jane, you're bleeding!" _

She blinks one more time.

The field disappears, a ballroom wrought with chaos replacing it. She's flat on the ground with Jaskier kneeling beside her, face hovering over hers. His eyes are wide with distress, gaze solely focusing on her. She attempts to stand, but the weight of her head is too much, so instead, it just bangs against the hard floor. Swords clanging and people shouting filters into her ears again, replacing the devastating silence that once resided in her mind.

"Jaskier."

"I'm here, I just need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?" he asks, holding her hand so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"A sheep can't command the dragon," she mutters, eyes fluttering shut, only to snap open when something cold and wet splashes over her face, again.

"Well the next time we meet a dragon, I'll let them know." She glances over, seeing the weak smile pulling at his lips. His pale face is stark white, the flush of red usually in his face completely gone, with dark and deep bags under his tired and dull eyes.

"You already have, I am the daughter of dragons," she mutters, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

She opens them again, blinking a few times and finding herself back in the open field and kneeling over Robb's body. She stands with unsteady legs and a weary body. Visenya turns around, staring at Walder Frey's keep, eyes solid ice with a stony expression. One step, two steps, and another, and then another, staggering towards the keep. The anger simmers, burning so hot it's cold now. Fire dances on the tips of the fingers, the flames licking up her arms with each step she takes.

_ "Can you do something? She's been injured?" Jaskier's voice echoes in Visenya's mind. _

_ "Possibly, step aside and I will do my best to heal her," another familiar male voice rings in her ears. _

A comforting feeling fills her body, smothering her pain in all things that are warm and homely.

She blinks, opening her eyes and finding herself back in Cintra with Jaskier and Mousesack hovering over her. She's delusional, she has to be. The only problem is, she can't decipher which reality is true and which one is a hallucination.

"Are you alright?" Mousesack asks, grabbing Visenya's hand in his own. Between Jaskier and him, they manage to help Visenya sit up just in time to see Queen Calanthe meet Geralt in battle. She holds her sword up to his neck and Geralt meets her blade with his own.

"Stop!" the Queen yells.


	12. The Law of Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I like...have a Tumblr?? Where I post things?? This is where I put any updates or anything related to this story so if you'd like to follow me, it's Epiphany-of-a-madwoman! :D

“Stop,” the Queen yells, but the room doesn’t pay her any mind, only Geralt stays his blade. 

“Stop!” she yells, louder than before. This time, all sound and movement in the room seize. Weapons clang against the floor, screams of rage and pain silence, no one in the room daring to move. Visenya lies on the ground, breathing so loudly she fears the entirety of the room can hear each shallow breath, yet her heart pounds too heavily for her to care. Shaky and pale hands touch the cold marble floor, using her remaining strength to pull her body into a sitting position. Jaskier places his hands - that are nearly as shaky as Visenya’s - on her back helping her slowly stand as she leans the majority of her weight against him. 

Everyone stares at Geralt and Queen Calanthe, with bated breath and wide eyes, waiting for either of them to make a move. Instead, it’s Princess Pavetta who makes the first move. She pushes her chair back, dashing down the steps, and towards the knight, the chaos is centered around.

“Duny!” her sugar-sweet voice calls out, distress evident with every crack in her words. She closes the distance between them, throwing her arms around his body. He returns her embrace, lifting her off the ground and swinging her around before gently setting her shaking form down. “I told you to stay away,” she says, glistening tears falling onto cheeks that are flushed red, as she cradles his face with her hands. 

Queen Calanthe’s eyes are glued on the two of them, watching as her daughter searches for any injuries on Duny. Calanthe’s eyes are wide and mouth agape, as her sword slowly lowers, but still rests firmly in her grasp. She moves around the two of them, heels echoing around the Main Hall. Pavetta and Duny look away from each other, Duny stepping away from Pavetta, kneeling before Queen Calanthe as he slowly sets down his makeshift weapon, only to stand moments later. 

“Your Majesty… the Witcher speaks the truth. I was cursed as a young boy. My whole life was spent living in misery until the day that I saved your husband, King Roegner, from certain death. By tradition, I chose the Law of Surprise as payment. Whatever windfall he came home to find… would be mine,” he says, looking down towards the ground at the end of his statement. 

Visenya watches with sharp eyes, no longer feeling delirious from blood loss, her strength slowly returning. The Queen’s face contorts into disgust, eyes giving away all thoughts and opinions she holds for her late husband. 

“Oh, the stupid bastard. Better you had let him die!” she spits out, each word as venomous as a Dornish viper. 

‘You knew he’d come, and you pushed me to kill him,” Geralt says, inserting himself into the conversation. His face is set in a grim scowl, clearly unhappy with the Queen trying to use him as a pawn. However, she ignores him, gaze solely focusing on her daughter now. Visenya pushes away from Jaskier, slowly stepping towards Geralt. Jaskier reaches his hand out, trying to catch her before she can get too far away, but she slips from his grasp like water.

“And you… carousing with the beast that swindled your stupid father!” Queen Calanthe exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at Pavetta, who shies away from her mother’s anger. Visenya feels her temper flare-up, the bitter words too similar to all the times Catelyn would berate and scold her when she stood too close to Jon. But she inhales deeply, forcing the fire out of her veins. 

_‘There’s already enough blood on my hands.’_

“Tis no swindle. Asking for payment with the Law of Surprise is as old as mankind itself,” Lord Eist speaks up, moving closer towards the small cluster of people. 

Pavetta moves towards Duny, grabbing his hand in her own, standing side by side with him. Her head is held high, with a challenging glint in her eyes. And for the first time that night, she finally looks like a proud lioness, instead of the scared pup she played all night long. Despite knowing nothing about the woman, Visenya feels pride burning in her as she watches the small act of defiance. 

“Don’t lecture me, Eist,” Calanthe says, pinning a harsh glare towards him. 

“It’s an honest gamble. As likely to be rewarded with a bumper crop as a newborn pup. Or… a child of surprise. He could not know. Destiny has determined the surprise be Pavetta,” Eist continues, unbothered by Calanthe’s angry demeanor. 

“When I heard that King Roegner had returned to find a child on the way… I abandoned all thought of claiming the Law of Surprise. I knew…. I knew no woman would ever accept me like this,” Duny says, he then turns his head facing Pavetta. “And so I waited. I waited until the twelfth bell when the curse broke. I never intended to meet her. Just to watch from afar,”

“Until destiny intervened...and our hearts collided,” Pavetta interrupts, a small smile on her lips as she holds his face in her hands once again, staring into his eyes. A small smile tugs on the corner of her lips as she watches him with wide glistening eyes. 

“And at dawn, I awoke with her in my arms and me… like this,” Duny says.

“Who are we to challenge destiny? A life was saved, a debt must be paid or the whole order of the world falls apart.” Eist pleads, stepping closer to Calanthe.

“Honor destiny’s wish, or unleash its wrath upon us,” Mousesack says.

“There is no _us_ ,” Calanthe spits. “I bow to no law made by men who never bore a child. Is there not a man before you who does not cower before destiny?” Queen Calanthe shouts, eyes passing over every person in the room, a challenge burning in her eyes. Her eyes land on Visenya, focusing on her for a moment. Visenya doesn’t waver, simply raising a single brow and raising her chin, a silent show of defiance. Only a lion could believe themselves above fate and the Gods. At least Westeros and this world have that in common. The queen scowls, but then her eyes rest on Geralt. 

“You Witcher, who has known monsters of every fang and claw, are you afraid too?” she asks. Her tone is mocking, the scowl on Visenya’s face deepening. 

“No,” Geralt says, his gruff voice a stark contrast to Calanthe’s smooth one. Visenya turns to look at Geralt, unsurprised by his lack of faith. “I’ve seen mother’s lash themselves raw over the death of a child, believing they crossed destiny, ignoring the stench of the fifty other children in plague carts outside. Destiny helps people believe there’s an order to this horse shit: there isn’t. But a promise made must be honored. That’s true for a commoner as it is a queen.” Geralt says. 

Pavetta touches Duny’s face, causing him to turn and face her. “I love Duny mother, I will marry him. I will finally be free,” she exclaims, unbridled happiness overflowing in each word she speaks as her eyes stay locked on Duny.

The words sting Visenya, another parallel of what Visenya could’ve had if she’d only been brave enough to chase it; brave enough to demand Jon be with her and demand Lord Stark to allow it. But the feeling fades as quickly as it came. 

_‘There’s no sense in regretting what can’t be changed.’_ Visenya berates herself. 

Calanthe watches the two of them, her stone façade beginning to crack and crumble away. Her harsh and austere eyes grow glossy with tears. Her sword arm grows limp, Eist slowly pulling the blade out of her hand, and she allows him to render her unarmed. Slowly she holds a hand out and Duny grabs it. She leans forward to whisper something into his ears. She pulls back, a small smile on her face.

But Visenya isn’t convinced by the serene façade. Only moments ago, Calanthe was willing to tear apart the world if it kept Pavetta from Duny. A pep talk from Geralt about honor can’t change that type of stubbornness. 

But then she reaches into her side, pulling a dagger from its sheath, blade pointing towards Duny’s neck. Horror paints itself onto Pavetta’s face as Calanthe pulls her dagger farther back and then forward, moments away from stabbing - and killing - Duny.

“No!” Pavetta screams as if she holds the power of ten banshees. It’s sharp, cutting through the room, leaving a painful ringing in the ears of everyone in the room. Glass begins to crack, spider webs forming in the tall windows in the Main Hall. Time moves in slow motion, almost stopping entirely, all the focus on Pavetta. A strong gust of wind explodes from Pavetta, pushing everyone within its grasp as far from her and Duny as physically possible. Glass shatters, hitting the floor and stabbing into unsuspecting victims. The furniture is blown to the ground and into the far corners of the room. Visenya yelps, her body hitting the wall, reopening the bloody wounds that Mousesack sealed with his magic only minutes ago. Her back digs into a particularly sharp corner, gritting her teeth as more pain ebbs through her body. The loud crack from the impact is quickly drowned by the scream. 

Strong winds swirl around Pavetta and Duny, slowly lifting their forms off the ground and into the air. Foreign words pour from her mouth, tone monotonous, and inhuman. Her emerald eyes bore into Duny, unwavering and unblinking. The words echo around the room and into Visenya’s ears, getting louder and louder with each word. The words, despite the chaos around them, lull Visenya into a sense of tranquility, her tense limbs slacking instantly, eyes fluttering shut as the words swirl in her head. They’re familiar and maternal, giving a similar feeling that her mother’s bedtime stories gave her. Or when Lady Catelyn would read to her when she was sick in bed, too weak to even open her eyes sometimes. 

It sounds like home, but it leaves behind a sharp feeling, like a paper cut that never healed right.

It’s intoxicating, yet invasive all the same, the feeling that someone can see into the deepest parts of her mind. The hairs on the back of her neck stand stiff, leaving a tingling sensation all over her body in its wake.

The words nearly take physical form in the darkness of her mind. 

And then the blackness ignites, the worlds beginning to fade.

_Suddenly she’s no longer in the Main Hall, devastated by the tumultuous magic of a distressed princess. Instead of stone walls and marble floors, there’s an open field, a roaring fire consuming it, encasing her body like armor. It dances around her limbs, licking her skin, but never leaving a burn. Left then right, there’s nothing but fire. She moves forward, stepping with bare feet on rocky terrain, and despite sharp ends piercing into her feet, she doesn’t stop, doesn’t even blink. Then, she pauses, so still, she doesn’t even breathe. The fire crackles, louder this time, thundering in her ear with the ferocity of a calvary ten thousand strong charging into battle. She inhales, sharply, watching with bated breath for...something to happen._

_And then her heart stops, brain freezing like an ice statue._

_Screech._

_The noise is small and breathy, not nearly as terrifying as she instinctively knows it will become. Before her eyes, Visenya watches as a large egg continues to crack, the burnt orange shell melting into the flames. A reptilian face is the first to break through the hardened shell, shimmering red eyes glimmering in the light, then one wing, followed by the other until it’s full body is free. It’s gold scales shimmer in the fire, nearly mimicking Visenya’s own eyes. She smiles, letting out a choked laugh like her throat is full of ash from the flames that dance around her._

_Screech._

_It roars again, batting it’s small bat-like wings as it steps out of the shell that encased it for so long. She moves towards it, but with each step, the dragon seems to get farther away until she can hardly see it. But she can hear it, Gods can she hear the dragon roar, each one louder and more terrifying than the last. The noise rumbles the ground beneath her, shaking her to the very core, but filling her with child-like wonder. She tries to run, hoping a faster pace will close the distance, eager to feel its scales beneath her fingers. Would they be smooth or rough? Soft like skin or coarse like salt?_

The scene dissipates, leaving her in darkness once again. She stays this way, for seconds, minutes, hours: who could tell? But then she opens her eyes, and instead of a burning field, she’s back in the Main Hall, chaos still reigning in the room. Pavetta and Duny are higher this time as she continues to chant the same eerie words over and over. 

Visenya glances to her right, watching Geralt slowly stand from the floor, fighting against the strong wind storm. He moves towards the two and thrusts two fingers forward. A burst of arcane force leaves his fingertips, causing Pavetta’s head to whip around, eyes focusing on Geralt instead of Duny. She lets out a yelp, ending the spell that holds everyone in the room hostage. Duny and her plummet to the hard ground, the wind dissipating as quickly as it appeared. 

Visenya breathes out a heavy sigh, slowly standing from her position against the wall. Queen Calanthe wastes no time, rushing towards Pavetta who is slowly standing from the ground, harsh bruises blossoming all over her delicate body. Without a word, Calanthe wraps her arms around Pavetta, tightly holding her. A moment later she releases Pavetta, delicately cradling her face in her rough hands.

“I thought your grandmother’s gift had skipped you… as it did me. It seems I was wrong...about so many things,” she says with a softness Visenya hasn’t seen in the Queen all night. Pavetta smiles, and despite the messy state of her hair and clothes, Pavetta is still easily a shining gem of beauty in the room. 

Calanthe slowly lets go of Pavetta, moving to face the large crowd that gathered around them. Duny moves beside Pavetta, the both of them moving to face the crowd as well, Pavetta tightly holding Duny’s hand in one and Queen Calanthe’s with her other.

“Destiny has spoken! And I have listened. The Law of Surprise will be honored. Pavetta will marry… Lord Urcheon,” Calanthe declares, loud enough that even the ghosts of the Lords and guards that died tonight can hear her from the beyond. 

“React poorly and you won’t just face the Lioness, you will be facing the Sea Hounds of Skellige. Because Queen Calanthe has… agreed to my proposal of marriage.” Lord Eist speaks up, moving to stand on the other side of Calanthe, grasping her hand in his own. She looks over at him, a sly smirk on her face, but she doesn’t rebuke his notion.

“There will be two vows here tonight! I assume that’s agreeable?” Calanthe exclaims. Murmurs of agreement from nearly everyone fill the room, the majority of the room nodding as well. “Delightful,” the Queen relaxes her shoulders, a smile gracing her face.

##  **o0o0o**

All is quiet in the room, so silent each inhale and exhale echos in the room like a vicious scream. The lords and ladies stand in a large circle, each holding a lit candle. It’s surprisingly calm, despite the turmoil and chaos in the room only a short while ago. Duny and Pavetta are on the ground, kneeling before Queen Calanthe. Visenya is standing directly across from the Queen, with Jaskier to her right and Geralt on her left. The candle in her hand shakes ever so slightly, her arms weak and heavy, the adrenaline in her body completely gone, leaving her frail like Old Nan from Winterfell. 

The Queen’s handmaiden stands beside the Queen, back straight with a small bowl of bright blue paint in her hands that is outstretched towards Queen Calanthe. She takes a finger and presses it into the bowl, soaking it in the paint. She leans forward using the same hand to press a line on Pavetta’s head, and then does the same to Duny, a melancholic smile on her face. Her brown eyes are tired like she’s just finished fighting a thousand wars. And perhaps she has, mentally wrestling with the prospect of her daughter marrying the man she did not intend for her. 

The handmaiden then hands Queen Calanthe a velvet cloth that’s a rich blue with gold embroidery on it. Similar to the weddings the Southerners have in Westeros, she weaves the ribbon in between their hands, physically binding them together, just like their souls and hearts are now bound.

“With my blessing, I thee bind,” Calanthe says, her voice hardly above a whisper. She smiles at Pavetta again, this one wider and less sad. Pavetta and Duny slowly turn towards each other, wide grins permanently etched onto their faces. Slowly they lean towards each other, eager to seal the marriage with a kiss. 

Their lips meet for a brief second, but Duny quickly pulls away, a snarl similar to a wild animal escaping his mouth. And then again, followed by a ferocious snarl. He collapses to the floor, his body twisting and contorting in unnatural ways as the loud noises continue. Visenya glances towards Geralt, noticing his stiff posture, intent golden eyes watching the scene. Visenya’s hand ghosts over where her sword should be, the anxiety building in her when she feels nothing but air. 

Before she can scan the room for a weapon to make use of, the noise ceases. Duny lifts his head, but instead of being a beast, he has the head of a man; a very attractive man, He has a strong jaw, deep brown eyes, and matching thick hair that falls with a slight wave. He inhales sharply, shaking as he stares at his hand - his human hands. Pavetta stares at him in shock, wide eyes staring at her now human husband. Duny looks up, meeting her gaze. And like two magnets they immediately rush towards one another, though it lacks any grace due to their positions on the floor. They meet in an embrace, Pavetta’s hands caressing his face, a beaming smile on her fair face. They lean forward, capturing each other's lips in another kiss, this one more passionate than the previous, gasps of laughter pouring from Pavetta’s mouth in between each kiss. 

“The twelfth bell has not yet rung!” Pavetta says once they pull away from each other.

“What has happened?” Calanthe says, sounding as dazed as Visenya feels. 

“I think your blessing of this marriage has fulfilled a destiny,” Mousesack says, stepping forward from the circle. “The curse has been lifted.” 

“Whoo,” Jaskier exclaims, one hand touching his chest and the other wrapped around the noblewoman that stands beside him. “I think this has the makings of my best ballad yet,” he says, wiping a single tear from his eye, looking towards the lady in his arms. 

Visenya simply rolls her eyes, looking at Geralt with exasperation in her eyes. 

“If you’re alive in the morning,” Geralt’s gruff voice roughly cuts through the beautiful moment and turns to face Jaskier. “Don’t grope a trout in any peculiar rivers until dawn.” Geralt turns to swiftly exit the room. 

“Wait!” Duny exclaims, turning away from Pavetta to face the Witcher. “You saved my life. I must repay you.” Duny stands from his position on the ground, hand outstretched. Geralt stops and sighs, turning to face Duny. 

“You’ve proven yourself to be the kind of man who would do the same, I want nothing.” Geralt turns to leave again but is interrupted once again by Duny. 

“No please, please Geralt of Rivia, do not think you are doing me a service. I cannot start a new life in the shadow of a life debt.” Duny says, his lips tilting upwards, a gleam in his dark eyes. Geralt sighs once more, facing the Lord

“Fine I claim the tradition as you have, the Law of Surprise; give that which you already have but do not know,” Geralt says, the annoyance in his voice clear as day to Visenya. 

“No!” Calanthe exclaims, fear clear in her glossy brown eyes. “What have you done Witcher?”

“Do not worry Your Majesty. The next time I’m seen in your kingdom will be to kill a real monster, not claim a crop or a new pup. Destiny can go fu--”

Before Geralt can finish his sentence, Pavetta leans forward, vomiting all over the floor. Calanthe rushes to the other side of her daughter, leaning down to Pavetta’s level to look her in the eyes.

“Pavetta,” she takes a hold of her daughter's chin, gently cupping it as she stares at her. “Are you--?” She doesn’t finish her sentence, the words unable to leave her mouth. In perfect unison, Pavetta, Duny, and Queen Calanthe look towards Geralt. Visenya follows their lead, looking towards Geralt with wide eyes. Geralt looks around, heavily sighing.

“Fuck,” he says, and then quickly turns away, exiting the room before anyone can stop him. Mousesack follows after him while Duny turns back to Pavetta, helping her to her feet. The rest of the room suddenly becomes unfrozen, the circle breaking as Lords and Ladies begin to mingle about the eventful night. But Visenya’s eyes are stuck on Calanthe. The Queen feels Visenya's burning gaze, turning to meet it.

They continue to stare at each other, and in her glossy hazel eyes, Visenya swears she can see death and destruction swirling inside them, the desolation in the years to come. At that moment Visenya feels like Daenys the Dreamer, seeing the fall of a great kingdom that should be indestructible. But just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone, Queen Calanthe breaking their gaze. 

She has no proof, no reason to believe Cintra would fall. Anytime Queen Calanthe’s name falls from the lips of anyone, it’s always mummers of praise at her prowess in battle, how fierce and deadly she is in the thick of combat. She has no reason to believe it, but yet, she can feel it deep in her bones.

Cintra is going to fall.

The Lions will fall as the Dragons did all those years ago.

“You should go, before he leaves you behind,” a voice breaks Visenya from her trance. Turning around, Mousesack is the one who spoke, standing behind her with a knowing glint in his eyes. Visenya cocks her head to the side. “Geralt, I mean.” 

“I suppose it’s either him or--” Visenya moves her eyes around the room, focusing on Jaskier and the giggling noblewoman. They’re incredibly close to each other, as he whispers something into her ear, causing another round of giggles to leave her mouth. “- that.” Visenya mutters, raising a brow. Mousesack simply laughs, shaking his head, amusement glinting in his eyes. 

“No wonder Geralt enjoys your company, you’re as dour as he is.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Visenya says, a small smile on her face as she faces Mousesack. “It was nice to meet you, Mousesack, perhaps our paths will cross again.” Visenya moves to walk past him to catch up with Geralt, but his hand grips her arm, stopping her in her tracks.

“Jane, I know this may not be my place to say, but I can sense immense primal power inside you, similar to what the Princess displayed,” he says, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“I don’t know what you--”

“I would be a fool to not notice the energy thrumming inside you, do not take me for a fool, Jane. Nevermind that I saw you burn a man with your bare hand,” he continues, unbothered by the way Visenya 's eyes bore into his face. 

“And what of it?” Visenya asks, straightening her posture and raising her chin slightly, like a wolf raising its hackles. 

“I also know you don’t have full control over it. Without proper training you will find yourself at the center of a situation like this, with a far worse outcome,” he says, unperturbed by Visenya's intimidation attempts. Flashes of a burning building and screaming flit through Visenya’s mind for a brief second. Her posture slackens, not by much, but enough for Mousesack to notice. 

“I suppose this is when you offer to be my teacher?” Visenya asks, sarcasm dripping from each word, a bitter laugh following shortly after. Her gold eyes narrow, lips pulled into a thin line. Mousesack chuckles, shaking his head, briefly looking away from Visenya, tracing the walls before his eyes flick back to her. 

“I’m afraid not, destiny has other plans for you, it would seem. Your place is with Geralt and whatever grand adventures you get wrapped into,” he says, mirth dancing in his eyes, visible even in the darkness of the hall. 

“Then it appears we are done here.” Visenya tries to maneuver past Mousesack, but his grip is tight, keeping Visenya in place. She turns back to him, eyes like hardened lava.

“If I might offer a piece of advice, find someone and let them help you control this power you have. But stay away from the Brotherhood, if you can. A mage outside of their grasp would be best.” Mousesack whispers, eyes staring deep into Visenya’s.

“Duly noted.” She moves to walk away again, and this time, Mousesack lets her. He releases her arm and watches as Visenya steps over the rubble and towards the exit. 

“May the gods watch over you, Visenya Targaryen,” Mousesack says. Visenya’s footsteps stop, posture as stiff as a board, the little hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Her heart pounds, blood filling her ears until she can’t hear anything. Like she’s been turned to stone, Visenya slowly turns around, a grim expression set on her face. But when she turns around, Mousesack has disappeared into the crowd of people. Gold eyes narrow, searching for Mousesack in the crowd for only a moment longer. 

She whirls around, eager to leave this castle and the kingdom behind. She swiftly walks through the hall, nodding at stragglers guests or guards as she passes them. It isn’t until she’s near the exit that she spots Geralt's stark white hair. The clothes Jaskier dressed him in are dirty and torn, pieces of rubble stuck in Geralt's disheveled hair. 

“Geralt!” she calls out, picking up her speed to close the distance between them. He turns around, eyes locking on her.

“Jane,” he simply says, watching as the distance between them closes until she’s standing in front of him. 

“Thought you could leave without me, did you?” she asks, a sly grin on her face. Geralt raises a brow, his lips pulling in a smirk that matches her own.

“I didn’t know you were joining me at all.”

“Well it’s either you or I stay with Jaskier and his new muse,” Visenya says, sarcasm oozing from her voice when she says muse. “And I don’t think it would be healthy to retch as much as I would be if I stayed with him.”

“So I’m your last resort?” Geralt asks, eyes glinting with mirth and just a hint of happiness.

“Of course, but don’t worry, I’ve had to put up with worse,” Visenya says. She pats Geralt on his chest as she passes him, beeling for the exit. 


	13. Tearful Goodbyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Alright, alright, I promise this is the last chapter that is heavily filled with angst, at least for a while! I can't help it, Vis is a very sad bean who keeps all her feelings in a bottle, and then she'll die. I just-- I need the build-up man! The character development man! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy! <3

The cool air of night is a stark contrast to the heat inside of Visenya, which grew hotter as the chaos during the banquet did. But now that peace is restored, standing under the night sky lit up by glittering stars, she feels that heat simmer down until it's a comforting warmth. The northern wind is biting, but she welcomes the feeling, the cold reminding her of the North - of home. The cold that would chill her to the bone, leaving her with chattering teeth and icy hands that always seemed miserable is something she longs for; a semblance of normalcy. She inhales and then exhales, watching with child-like wonder as her breath becomes visible in the cold temperatures. So enraptured by the weather, she nearly forgets she isn't alone, and that Geralt is a few steps ahead of her now, watching her with curious eyes. Yet it's Jaskier's voice that pulls her from her stupor.

"So this is it?"

Visenya turns around, gold eyes wide with her lips set in a thin line. Jaskier is standing at the entrance of the castle, the noblewoman previously with him nowhere to be seen. He's disheveled and so unlike the normally prim and proper Jaskier she's accustomed to, his floppy brown hair windblown and sticking up in random directions. His clothes are wrinkled in odd places, ripped here and there, but overall mostly intact. His eyes are wide, as they normally are, but they're glassier than she remembers them being, the stars betraying what seems to be held back tears.

"You don't have to leave, you know, just because the Countess de Stael has agreed to be my patron. I could still use my bodyguard," Jaskier says, smiling, but it's not carefree and easygoing, brimming with his usual mirth. Instead, it's tight and harsh, not quite reaching his eyes. His hands loosely rest in front of him, fingers nervously intertwining with each other.

Visenya smiles, mustering all her strength to appear every bit the soft and docile maiden from every fairytale, looking at him like she would've Bran and Rickon. She sighs, forming and reforming the words in her mind, trying to find the perfect thing to say. But each time she comes short, a harsh reminder she'll never be a good poet.

Instead, she opts to shrug her shoulders and move closer to the entrance, closing the distance between them. She's melancholic, feeling as if another chapter of her life is coming to an end. She and Jaskier traveled together for years, how could she not feel a hint of emotion when it seems like their travels are on hiatus - if not done entirely.

"Come on Jane, you in court, scaring away all the mean people who want to kill me, we'd make the best team!" Jaskier exclaims, trying - and failing - to have his usual enthusiasm behind the words. They fall flat, sounding more desperate and sad rather than upbeat and encouraging. Visenya sighs once more, the smile on her face requiring less concentration as Jaskier continues to ramble. Finally, she closes the distance between them. "I'll never leave you to your brooding when you want!"

"Whilst that does sound interesting, I'm afraid I wouldn't do well in court," Visenya says, reaching out and taking Jaskier's hand in her own.

"I disagree, My Lady," Jaskier says, pursing his lips and looking at the ground, pausing for a brief moment, allowing the wind to whistle between them. "But I understand."

"My place is out there, where I can stab things," Visenya says, raising her brows with a small smirk on her face.

"You could do that here you know? Not to sound like I'm trying to talk you out of your decision because I respect your choices and everything," Jaskier says, his enthusiasm gaining traction with each word. Visenya laughs, a small laugh that's nothing more than a whisper, but it's music to the ears of anyone who hears it.

"I could, but that would get me in trouble with the law," she responds, shaking her head, the smirk playing on her lips morphing back into a gentle smile.

"Right, I almost forgot about that," Jaskier mutters looking up towards the sky.

"Goodbye Jaskier. Though with my luck this isn't the end, I'll run into you sooner or later," Visenya says, a mischievous glint in her normally stoic gold eyes.

"Oh, I'm afraid you won't get rid of me so easily, my fair lady!" Jaskier exclaims, perking up slightly. "Goodbye, Jane. You and Geralt watch out for each other, alright! I won't have the two scariest people I know both dying, then who'll serve as my protection at high-class events!" Jaskier proclaims, some of his natural charisma returning, his blue eyes not nearly as glossy as moments prior.

"I'll do what I can." Visenya places her hand on Jaskier's shoulder, pulling his body towards her's, wrapping her other arm around his neck as she hugs him. Shocked, Jaskier is stiff for a moment, before melting like morning dew under the hot sun and wrapping his arms around her. He breathes in and then out, as Visenya does the same until their breathing is nearly perfectly synced up. She places her face in the crook of his neck, burning the moment in her mind, unwilling to ever forget this moment in case it's their last. She inhales his scent, committing it to memory; juniper and sage, sharp and warm and earthy all at once, with a hint of sweet wine and linseed oil.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, the words muffled against his neck, but Jaskier understands her none-the-less. "I'm sorry for earlier,"

Jaskier's hand moves from her back to the top of her head, soothingly rubbing it as Lady Catelyn used to when Visenya would run to her crying about one thing or another. It's comforting and familiar, nearly bringing Visenya to tears from the simple act.

"It's okay, you're complicated, I paid extra for my bodyguard to be dark and broody," Jaskier says, a slight sarcastic quirk in his tone at the end. "But promise me you won't isolate yourself any more than you already have. Talk to Geralt, he understands broody and dark."

"I'll keep it in mind," Visenya responds, slowly opening her eyes and unraveling from Jaskier. "Maybe I'll tell you all about how complicated I am next time we meet?" Visenya gives him one last smile, slowly stepping away, but not turning her gaze away from him.

"Oh, I'll hold you to that promise, missy!" Jaskier exclaims, wagging his finger at Visenya as if she is a child. Once again she laughs, louder this time, not as restrained as it normally is.

"I'm counting on it," Visenya replies, talking one last step, turning around to face Geralt, rushing towards him, eager to escape the emotions brimming inside her. Trying desperately to not think about how odd it is that she is walking away from Jaskier, the only constant in this crazy world since the day they met.

"Goodbye, you two! Now take care of each other, in every aspect, if you know what I mean!" Jaskier calls out, disappearing into the castle before either of them could retaliate.

She meets Geralt, who says nothing, he simply raises a brow at her, silently asking _'Are you sure?'_

"My place isn't in court." Is all she says. Geralt grunts, nodding his head, a stoic expression on his face. "Let's go back to the inn, I need an ale and lots of sleep."

A smirk creeps onto Geralt's face, his eyes shining with amusement, illuminated by starlight. He quietly snorts, turning to face the gate leading out to the main portion of the city.

"I can agree with that." In nearly perfect unison they walk out of the castle grounds, Visenya easily keeping up with Geralt's long strides. They're quiet, the only sound is their feet pounding against the cobblestone road and the ambient noises of guards and nobles around them.

A particularly strong gust of wind blows through the courtyard causing a piece of Visenya's hair to blow in front of her eyes. She grabs a small chunk of hair, intently inspecting the grey-brown strands. With the silver light shining from the otherwise midnight sky, she can nearly see the silvery-golden hue hidden under cheap hair dye. Or maybe it's a trick of her eyes. She lets out a puff of hair, blowing the hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ears to secure it in place.

"So a child," Visenya says, no inflection in her words as she continues to stare straight ahead. Geralt's steps falter for a brief second before he quickly regains his footing. He sighs, heavily, somehow managing to put in all his frustration and annoyance in one simple noise.

"I don't want to talk about it Jane," he says. His tone is stern as if he's talking to an unruly child. It reminds her of when she, Jon, Robb, and Theon were the terrors of Winterfell, in the days before they grew up and the world became dark. She can't help the faint smile that appears on her face, her gold eyes lighting up like the sun, but not nearly as bright as the summer sun in the South. It's more like the North, where the heavy fog and thick clouds obscure most of the sunlight, muffling the harshest parts of the rays and bathing everything in dim light.

"I know, but not talking about isn't going to make this go away," she says, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He's clenching his jaw, veins on his neck slightly popping out. His lips are set in a thin line with eyes like stone.

"There's nothing to run away from," he says. Visenya stops, turning to face Geralt, reaching her hand out and grabbing his shoulder, stopping him in his place and turning him to face her.

"Geralt," she says, her voice serious and stern. "This isn't a joke. This isn't making a bargain with someone in a seedy part of town and running away before they can collect their prize. This is serious."

"I didn't take you as one to think destiny is real." Geralt says, raising a single brow at Visenya.

"We all need something to cling to," she responds, not breaking from his gaze.

"And what do you believe?" Geralt asks.

"That...everything happens for a reason; that there's a purpose behind every tragedy and triumph that we experience - both great and insignificant," Visenya says, keeping her voice low enough that any nosy passers-by won't hear their exchange.

"This isn't some divine plan; this was just a princess using her magic to get her way, destiny has nothing to do with a girl who has no idea how to control her powers," Geralt says, standing firm on his stance. Strong and stubborn; he would've done well in Winterfell amongst the Northern lords.

"Oh cut the shit Geralt, do you honestly have to be so fucking pragmatic that you can't believe in something if you can't see it with your own eyes," Visenay says, keeping her voice low enough as to not attract any more attention towards them. Whilst the crowds are thinning with each moment that passes, even one person seeing their argument is too many.

"I thought you were more intelligent than this, clearly I was mistaken" Geralt responds, taking a step towards Visenya. His eyes glow bright yellow like the fire burning inside of her. Geralt's fire collides with Visenya's ice. He's egging it on, he wants a fight, she realizes. For her to get so angry she yells and screams at him. Why he is, she's not sure.

"Do you have to be such an asshole, Geralt of Rivia? You have no right to insult my intelligence by being so patronizing, I'm not a child, don't treat me as such," Visenya says, spitting the words like they are venom. She steps closer to him, close enough that she can feel his breath and hear his heartbeat.

"Well, it's either that, or you sustained a far worse injury in that fight than originally thought. How could you believe in this horseshit?" He won't stop, adding further fuel to the fire inside her; her pride rearing its ugly head and demanding she win the fight, no matter how petty and uncalled for it is.

Visenya narrows her eyes and clenches her jaw. Her hands form fists at the side of her body, her blood nearly starting to boil from her rage.

"How could I not, after everything that's happened," she says with a voice like ice, so cold that it burns. Her words are quiet, but they're sharp, stabbing into Geralt like sharpened icicles in a winter storm.

"What? What happened Jane? I'm supposed to believe in destiny just because you survived a rebellion?" Geralt asks, a mocking tone lacing his cruel and coarse words. He's not malicious in his intentions, it shines in his eyes, but the words are daggers to her heart none-the-less.

"Stop it," Visenya whispers, taking a step away from Geralt, but he just moves closer. "That's not fair and you know it."

"The gods don't care who lives or dies, why should they care about some child--" Geralt continues, but Visenya interrupts him, her quiet words silencing him.

"I died," she simply says. Geralt closes his mouth, his clenched jaw loosening. Visenya takes a sharp breath and then lets it out, watching as her breath dissipates into the cold air. Heart pounding with shaky hands, Visenya closes her eyes for a moment and then opens them before continuing.

"My family was betrayed and they killed us, butchered at a wedding like we were nothing but cattle. Next thing I know, I woke up outside of Blaviken with this-" Visenya says. Gold eyes dart around their surroundings, searching for any eavesdroppers. Luckily, the streets are nearly empty, the few people still scuttling around not paying them any mind. She holds out her hand, and focuses on...something, trying to recreate the feelings that would bubble under the surface before the fire made its presence known. Her eyes flutter shut, and within a second, a small flame flickers in the palm of her hand, the fire quickly dying out. But it's all she needs.

"Fire magic," Geralt says, breaking Visenya from her concentration. She closes her palm, hiding the arm behind her back as if to protect herself from harm. She looks up, meeting Geralt's wide gaze. "Blaviken burning... that was you,"

Visenya nods, thickly swallowing the lump in her throat, trying to push away the haunting memories of Blaviken burning.

"I lost control and just-- exploded, by the time I came to, everyone was already dead," Visenya says, shrugging her shoulders, her voice hardly above a whisper; soft, weak, and almost completely vulnerable. She purposely leaves out the part where she reveled in the destruction, feeling glee from their suffering. Geralt is silent - maddingly so, it leaves Visenya tense and uneasy. Every second passing feels like a lifetime as Geralt stands in silence and Visenya awaits his response.

But he says nothing, just simply nods his head.

"What now? Are you going to put me down like one of those monsters?" Visenya asks, and despite the self-deprecating words, her tone holds no humor to it.

"You're not a monster." Geralt says, his words like a knife cutting through the thoughts rushing through her mind. "What's done is done."

Visenya nods, taking another step away from Geralt and turning to face the road, eager now more than ever to return to the inn. The rushing wind cools her face and eases the tension in her body, not completely, but enough that she isn't afraid of exploding. Geralt's heavy footsteps pound behind her, his long legs swiftly catching up to Visenya. It's silent, but not the soothing one that leaves Visenya comfortable. Instead, it's tense and awkward, the words from their argument lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," Geralt simply says, his tone not as firm as it normally is. Geralt is always sure of what he says - whether it's sarcasm or not, but this time he isn't. Witchers hunt monsters, not console maidens. The effort causes Visenya to smile, a small sad smile that doesn't fully reach her eyes.

"It's okay, we both have issues," she says.

"If you want to speak about it--" Geralt begins, the words sounding unsure as they leave his lips.

"I know where to find you," Visenya finishes his sentence, the smile on her face growing bigger. "But, if I did, I'd have to kill you," she responds. Geralt narrows his eyes for a moment, before a small smirk appears on his face, cracking the stone in his expression.

"Maybe you should tell Jaskier then, rid me of that bard," Geralt says, turning and continuing to walk towards the inn they're staying at for the night.

"Oh, he's not that bad. I might actually miss the guy," Visenya says, a small smile resting on her lips. "There's never a dull moment."

"That's what I'm hoping for, dull moments," Geralt says. Visenya looks at him, a teasing glint in her eyes.

"Well, I'm afraid you may not get that, not with me around at least." Visenya teases, cocking her head to the side as she raises her brows slightly. Geralt looks at her, scoffing quietly.

"I'm counting on it," he replies. Visenya laughs, the sound more similar to a scoff. They continue weaving through the citizens that remain on the streets. No one pays them much mind, too busy in their worlds, but the few that do take notice of Geralt say nothing. And Visenya is grateful, she's had enough excitement for one night.

**_o0o0o_ **

The tavern on the level below them is particularly rowdy that night; horrible renditions of bawdy tavern jigs being sung by drunks, cackling men and women, and the thumping of feet banging on the floor and mugs on the tables. The wall shakes and the floor does as well, disturbing the small amount of peace Visenya has. She sits on the side of the bed, her bare feet hovering over the floor, only the very tips of her toes touching the cold wood. Except for the ambiance, the room is silent, but not unbearably so. It's comforting and entirely foreign to Visenya to be able to hear her thoughts.

Jaskier hated silence, needing to fill it with nonsensical rambles and filler thoughts to break the quiet. But Geralt revels in the silence, seeing it as a prized commodity he doesn't get blessed with often. The cool metal of her silver dagger cools the heat that's always under her skin. She balances it in her right hand while staring at the blank wall ahead of her. Jaskier always said she broods too much and is never much fun to be around when this way. Geralt is on the edge of the bed across from her, diligently cleaning his blade. Any dirt and residual blood from the feast have long since been cleaned off, Geralt continues to shine it. His ashen brows are furrowed and his lips set in a thin line. There's a small line that formed on his forehead, a dead giveaway that he's lost in thought.

Visenya sighs, placing the dagger back into its small sheath and sets that on the small table near her bed. The bed squeaks as she stands up, the floor creaking as she puts more weight onto it. Geralt pauses his sword cleaning for a split second but continues as if he never stopped.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

The floor creaks with each movement and the distance separating her and Geralt quickly dwindles until it's almost nonexistent, her knees nearly touching him. Wordlessly, she sits beside him, reaching a hand up and beginning the arduous process of unweaving the intricate braids Jaskier put in them. A partially broken fingernail snags in her hair, getting knotted and tangled.

"Fuck," she says quietly under her breath, bracing herself to rip the chunk of hair out. Mentally she counts down from three, pulling with all her force on one. Rubbing her fingers together, she looks at the snaggle she pulled from her hair.

"Here," Geralt says, sheathing his blade and setting it aside. His much larger and rough hand reaches up towards her head but hovers over his head. "Can I?"

"Sure, can't be any worse than me," Visenya says, turning around to give him access to the back of her head. Without another word, Geralt's hand tangled in her hand, but instead of the recklessness Visenya tackled her hair with, he's much gentler, managing to unweave the braids twice as fast as she would've.

"Can I ask you a question Geralt?" Visenya asks after a moment of silence. Instead of answering Geralt just grunts, focusing on a particularly difficult four-strand braid.

"Are there dragons? And are they real?" she asks, putting all her energy into keeping her inflection neutral. She remembers in the Main Hall when Princess Pavetta's scream knocked everyone to the ground and filled Visenya's head with visions of a great fire giving birth to a dragon. She remembers how the clearing smelt and the longing inside of her to run her fingers over the smooth golden scales of the baby dragon.

"Yes, they're real, though they're exceedingly rare." Geralt responds.

"Really? What kinds are there, or are they all the same?" she asks, trying to turn to face him, but his other hand cups her head, keeping her in place.

"There are five: green dragons, they're the most common; red dragons less so; and black dragons are the rarest," he answers. He finally managed to find the tie keeping the four-strand braid intact and began carefully unweaving it.

"What about gold?" Visenya asks, staring at the blank wall as she remembers that dream from the woods when she stood in the Throne Room, The Red Keep in shambles around her as a gold dragon flew above her.

"They're a myth," he says, combing his finger through the undone braid before moving onto the next.

"Oh," is all she says, unsure of what else to say. Disappointment fills her mind, and for the life of her she can't figure out why. They're only silly dreams after all, right? "You say they're rare, why is that?"

"Treasure Seekers, idiots eager to steal the dragon's hoard, all the better if they could slay it and bring back a trophy of their kill," Geralt says, carefully pulling apart a knot in her hair. He's much softer than Visenya would've thought.

"Why would anyone do that?" Visenya immediately says, her brows furrowing. A quiet _ow_ leaves her mouth as Geralt finishes working on the snarl. He mutters a quiet _sorry_ but moves onto the next knot.

"For sport. Slaying a beast of that caliber is seen as a high accomplishment to commoners and nobles alike," Geralt says. Visenya feels heat rush to her face, brows furrowing more, causing small lines to appear on her forehead.

"They're not beasts to me. No matter how terrifying they may be to everyone else, I envy them. To be able to go anywhere you wish and do anything you'd like. It's...nice, romantic in a childhood fairytale sort of what. I'd give anything to see one," Visenya says, her tone of voice similar to a wishful child dreaming of knights and kings, vying for a happily ever after with either. 

"I never said I thought they were beasts. Though I can't say I share the same sentiment as you, I prefer to stay away from fire breathing creatures," Geralt says, glancing at Visenya from the corner of his eye.

"I guess it's just in my blood."

"Is that why you have a dragon on the hilt of your blade?" Geralt asks, throwing the last small leather strip from her hair across the room. Visenya's eyes watch it soar through the sky before smacking against the wall directly across from her.

"Something like that," she answers, absent-minded and lost in thought. "It was a gift from...an old friend," she continues, glassy gaze casting to the dusty floor. She clenches her jaw in a desperate attempt to keep it from trembling.

"Was it--?" Geralt asks, removing his hands from her hair, but Visenya stays in place. She fears if she looks at him she won't be able to control the tears building in her eyes, eager to be free.

"Yes, and his name was Robb. He wasn't my brother, not by blood, but the Starks were the closest thing I had to family. He had it commissioned for me when we went to war. It - and my cloak - are all I have left of them," Visenya says. Her voice breaks with every other syllable, the words barely heard over the jeering patrons from below. The fire in the far corner of the room cracks, the noise drawing Visenya's attention to the flames. They illuminate her eyes - even more than normal due to the unshed tears, bringing out the flecks of white and orange in them.

It's still fresh in her mind, a haunting vision that she can't escape no matter how much she'd like: the sea of dead bodies around her, only to find Robb's decapitated body when managed to free herself. His direwolf coat-of-arms the only thing left that could identify it as Robb Stark. It pulls apart the stitches she meticulously applied to each and every wound that she sustained in Westeros. Months upon months, maybe even years, of work, only for it to unravel within seconds. She wants to forget. To throw herself into something - _anything_ \- as long as it frees her from these memories that linger over her like a dark cloud.

She takes a deep breath, trying to erase her rapidly beating heart, slowly thickly to get rid of the small lump in her throat. Her eyes flutter closed, refusing to open until the building tears disappear. Eventually, they do.

"You're not from here, are you?" Geralt says. His sentence is a question, but she knows he already knows the answer. He always seems to know.

"No, I'm not," Visenya mutters, feeling drained as if she just ran a marathon on little to no sleep. She's tired, and she's tired of being tired all the time.

"But I don't want to speak about that," Visenya says, sitting up straighter and moving her gaze back to Geralt.

"What then?" Geralt asks, ashen brows furrowed and eyes gleaming with interest. Visenya leans up, her face mere centimeters away from Geralt's. But she doesn't draw any closer, instead, she stays perfectly still, feeling his breath fan across her face and listening to his steady heartbeat - the pace much slower than her own. Her eyes trace his face, focusing on a faint scar that rests on his right cheekbone. The healed injury nearly glows in the candlelit room. She places both of her hands on his shoulders, using him to steady herself. She feels light as air, getting drunk off of Geralt's scent, inhaling the smell of fresh herbs and leather oil as if it's a drug she's addicted to.

"Oh I'm sure you could figure it out," she replies, a smirk on her lips. A heartbeat later, Geralt surges forward, closing the dwindling distance between them. His lips press against hers, firmer than she remembers, but just as sweet - if not more so due to the sweeter Cintran ale. She leans into him, eager to be as close as physically possible, and even then it wouldn't be enough.

Visenya pulls back, deeply inhaling in an attempt to gain her lost breath. She stares into Geralt's eyes, seeing her reflection in them. They're memorizing and captivating, full of everything Geralt doesn't say with words. The longer she stares the steadier her breathing gets, but the heavy feeling from the feast doesn't lift, and the distraction of Geralt did nothing but provide simple fortification to an already lost cause.

"Oh my god," Visenya mutters, her somber tone a stark difference to the teasing one she used moments prior. "I died," she says, disbelief lacing each word like she can't believe them even as they fall from her own lips. "I was murdered at a wedding and I died," she repeats, the tears returning, only this time with more vigor and she's unable to contend with their will. They pour from her eyes like heavy rain, clouding her sight and judgment, until all she can think about is Walder Frey betraying them over and over again.

The memories she'd buried deep inside her resurfacing. Catelyn falling to the ground, crossbow bolts stuck in her body, and Robb's dead body - head severed and replaced with a direwolf head - being paraded around on a horse.

Geralt pulls her towards his chest, his expression softer than the usual stoic mask he wears, albeit confused at her confession. Of course, her timing could not have been worse.

It's the first time she ever admitted to what happened. That her death - along with Robb and Catelyn's were real.

This is all real.

Objectively, every injury she received; whenever she's thirsty or hungry; or every time she goes to sleep and wakes up should've been proof that she's alive and her surroundings are real. But she's never admitted it, not to anyone and certainly not herself. Westeros is a topic she specifically avoids, keeping it locked away to never be seen. Subconscious denial is safer when survival is a concern.

She sniffles once more and pulls back from Geralt. She rubs her hand across her eyes, drying the dampness. The tears eventually stopped, however, her eyes remained bloodshot and puffy. Geralt carefully watches her every move, removing his hands from around her. She stands from the bed to move back to her own, eager to leave this night behind her. But Geralt grabs onto her arm, keeping her from moving away.

She looks at him with glossy gold eyes but says nothing, and neither does he. Yet he's speaking more clearly to her than anyone ever has in her life. Silently, moves back onto the bed, Geralt moving with her. He pulls back the blankets, motioning for her to enter first. The bed is as uncomfortable and itchy as hers, yet when she finally stops moving and Geralt gets beside her, she's the most comfortable she's ever been.

They continue to say nothing for the rest of the night. Visenya closes her eyes, moving onto her side, facing Geralt who stays on his back. Each time she blinks her eyes grow heavier and heavier, each breath deeper until eventually, she closes her eyes and the world turns black. 

  
  



	14. To Hunt A Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Also! I took some liberties with the alp and their abilities, pls don’t hate me!

Visenya swings her blade down, metal clanging against metal. A small bead of sweat runs down her forehead, falling from her brow bone and landing on the ground. She tosses her blade to the other hand, pulling it up just in time to block the incoming attack, their clashing swords forming a ‘T’. She nimbly moves to the side, and away from her opponent, breaking away from his sword. With otherworldly grace, Visenya whirls around in a half-circle, now standing behind him, pushing her blade forward to pierce through his back. He turns around, jumping back before the hit makes contact, pushing it out of the way with his own.

Metal rings in the clearing as they continue their deadly dance. Geralt kicks his leg out, centimeters away from hitting Visenya’s knees. She brings her blade down in a half crescent shape, smacking the side of his leg with the flat part of her blade. He grunts out a laugh, unbothered by the hit, but it allows Visenya to jump back from his assault. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, White Wolf,” Visenya teases, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she awaits Geralt’s next move. He snorts and lunges towards her once more. She sidesteps him, using her smaller size to her advantage. She laughs, the sound blending yet also clashing with the sound of two blades meeting in a bind. 

“You’re too arrogant,” Geralt says, pressing against her blade with more force. 

He smiles, a smile that’s all teeth, nearly feral looking. Visenya's arm begins to shake, her strength quickly dwindling. But before she can attempt to pull back, Geralt suddenly drops his blade, the lack of resistance causing Visenya to stumble forward. At the same time, he sweeps his leg out, her stumble morphing into a fall. 

_**Thud.** _

Visenya lands on her back, sword falling out of her hand. Without hesitation Geralt kicks it out of her reach, pointing his sword at her throat.

“It’ll get you killed.” His tone is grim, face set in a deep scowl. “--again,” he adds as an afterthought. Her confession from weeks ago is still fresh, pushed to the forefront of his mind every time he so much as glances at her. 

“Well if you didn’t play cheap,” Visenya says, minor annoyance etching a deep scowl onto her face. 

“There is no such thing as playing cheap when it comes to fighting. You either win or you don’t,” Geralt says, scolding her like a father would an unruly and stubborn child. But if he’s as old as Visenya thinks, she might as well be. 

“Whatever,” Visenya mutters, not moving from her position on the ground, instead she moves her gaze upwards. Threads of dawn emboss the sky, rays of pink and orange tinting it, their vivid colors offset by opalescent clouds. It’s quiet, nearly too quiet, if not for her rapid inhale and exhale of breath. 

“You’re good, but you’re too wild,” Geralt says. He tosses his blade aside, reaching a hand down to help her up. Her face flushes red from exerting too much energy, with breathes that're too quick, the spar taking more of her energy up than it should’ve. Then again, for years her only constant companion had been Jaskier, and he ended up pricking three of his fingers before even fully lifting a sword. That was the last time she attempted to arm him. 

“Don’t patronize me,” Visenya says, blowing away the stray hairs that fell out of her ponytail and onto her face. 

“I’m not. I’m giving advice. Besides--” Geralt looks over at her, the corners of his mouth slowly pulling into a grin. His slightly sharper teeth give his grin a wolfish appearance, predatory and mischievous in nature. “--when did you become such a sore loser?” Geralt teases.

“I don’t know, around the time you got slow,” Visenya responds, grabbing onto Geralt’s outstretched hand. But instead of using it to pull herself up, she yanks on it with all of her remaining strength, causing Geralt to tumble to the ground. 

His eyes are wide with bewilderment and shock, a small giggle bubbling from Visenya’s mouth, taking special notice of the green grass that mingles with his tangled white hair. Geralt scoffs, but there’s a small smile on his face that betrays his amusement, small droplets of dew on his hair that glisten in the sun, like tiny beams of light. 

Visenya sits up, repositioning herself to be more comfortable on the ground. Geralt follows suit, shaking his head like a dog. Brown twigs and emerald leaves fly in the air and disappear into the sea of green that’s now tinged with dark brown.

Geralt opens his mouth and laughs, it’s not overly loud and merry sounding, but it’s more than he normally gives. The sound echoes in the small clearing, dancing away in the wind to bless someone else’s ears with the soft sound. His eyes shine in the light, causing him to almost look ethereal. Visenya smiles, her heartbeat speeding up, ever so slightly, and for the life of her she can’t figure out why. 

“I meant it, you're improving,” Geralt says, placing his arms on his knees and staring at the trees that surround them. 

“Are you saying I was a bad swordsman before?” Visenya teases, the smile on her face quickly evaporates, however, when Geralt doesn’t return the mirth. She scoffs and smacks his arm. “You are saying I was a bad swordsman!” she exclaims, disbelief causing a small laugh to escape her mouth. Ser Rodrik trained her himself and before him, Jon. Two of the best swordsmen in the North trained her, a bad fighter is the absolute last thing Visenya would label herself as. 

“No, just...chaotic,” Geralt says, seemingly unbothered by her assault. 

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” Visenya asks, raising a brow at him. 

“No, but it’s the truth. You fight well, but you fight without control or discipline.” Geralt says.

“So I’m unruly?” 

“Like a tornado or a wild animal,” Geralt says, a smirk on his face. Visenya rolls her eyes, smacking him once again - just for good measure. With a huff, she tightens her ponytail, pushing away the sweat coated baby hairs that stick to her forehead. She stands from the floor, walking towards the edge of the clearing where her leather bag is haphazardly resting against a tree. Crouching down and opening the main pouch, she pulls out two apples - one red and the other green. She tosses the red one in the air once, then launches it at Geralt as soon as it grazes her palm. He catches it with ease, not even bothering to look in her direction. Visenya smirks, taking a bite out of the remaining apple. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was raised by wolves?” Visenya asks. There’s a smirk on her lips, a gleam in her eyes that says she’s in on a joke that no one else knows. And she revels in it. 

“Yes,” Geralt simply replies, eyes wandering towards the sky, basking in the calm that seems so fleeting when on the road with a monster hunter. 

“Well, I choose to take both of those answers as a compliment. It just means I’m a force to be reckoned with in - and out - of combat. I think my ancestor and namesake would come back from the dead just to murder me if I wasn’t a half-decent fighter,” Visenya says, staring up at the thick canopy above her. She inches closer into the forest, not committing to entering it completely, but getting close enough. The singing of birds in the distance soothing to her ringing ears, allowing her thoughts to pause if only for a moment. 

“Hmm,” is Geralt’s only reply.

“She was a warrior queen, as comfortable in ringmail as she was in silks, as they say. She was legendary” Visenya says, wistfully staring into the trees, getting lost in the melancholy that usually follows when she thinks of her family. 

She remembers the stories her Septa would tell her, and the old dusty books she’d find in the library. She can nearly taste the old stale dust that coated the books, flying into the air once her fingers made contact. But she also remembers her eyes desperately drinking in each word, fantasizing that she was the one flying on a dragon, so high in the sky no one could touch her. 

Not Robert Baratheon, nor Tywin Lannister, not even The Mountain. But those were foolish daydreams of a child, who didn’t fully understand the nuances of things, nor how horrible some of her family truly had been. 

“And I was named after _ **her.**_ Sometimes I feel like I’m not worthy of it. It’s not like there are a dozen other idiots with the same name - who are more foolish than the last, not like Aegon or Viserys,” Visenya mutters to herself, hardly even registering that Geralt is still keenly listening to her ramblings. 

“I didn’t realize Jane was a family name,” Geralt says, his red apple still in hand, untouched. Visenya breathes out a laugh, the sound being swallowed by a strong gust of wind. 

“No of course not, it’s Vise--” Visenya starts, but closes her mouth, turning to face Geralt who watches her with a curious gaze. She coughs, glancing at the trees one last time before returning her gaze to Geralt. “How do you know it wasn’t my ancestors that made the name popular?” 

Geralt raises a brow, his expression showing how little he’s buying her pathetic save, but he doesn’t press the issue, thank the gods. Visenya continues biting into her apple, savoring not only each sweet bite but also the silence surrounding them.

“You’re light on your feet,” Geralt says after a moment. Visenya turns to look at him, a question on her face with raised ashen eyebrows. “Use that to your advantage. Most of your enemies will be much larger than you, bulkier. Which means they’re slower. Tire them out and run circles around them. You’ll never be able to beat them with brute force.” Geralt says, still looking towards the sky, eyes focusing on a particular bird.

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

##  _**o0o0o** _

“So an alp?” Visenya says, tapping her fingers against the wooden surface of the table she sits at. Her posture is relaxed, languidly sitting in the uncomfortable wooden chair. The room they’re renting is tiny, unbearably claustrophobic with the stench of stale air lingering in her nose at all hours. But it’s the only one in the small village, their size and lack of constant travelers not allowing for them to sink too much money in the rooms, opting to spend their coin on ale and food. At this point Visenya would rather stay in a brothel than here, at least they try to sell the idea of luxury and comfort - no matter how off the mark they may be. 

“Hmm,” Geralt grunts, tossing his leather bag across the room. Visenya watches as it glides through the air like a cannonball before landing with a loud thump on the bed. She returns her gaze to Geralt, who moves across the room, towards her, a pitcher of ale in hand. He sets it on the table, the force of it causing small droplets of ale to splatter onto the table. The fire in the corner of the room crackles, forcing itself into their conversation like a bothersome sibling. 

“Oh don’t tell me, I know this one. Let me see...alps are the ones who take humanoid forms to lure their victims and then they drink their blood until there’s nothing left, right? They also have the whole ‘saliva that puts its victims to sleep and can cause horrible nightmares’,” Visenya says, a slight smirk on her lips, eyes glowing with pride and self-satisfaction. 

“You already know you’re right,” Geralt says, a lilt of amusement in his otherwise deadpan tone. Visenya smirks, grabbing a mug and pouring ale into it, careful to not spill any. She sets the jug back down, throwing her cup back and downing nearly all of it. The amber liquid is bitter, not as smooth and sweet as Cintran ale. It burns and not in a pleasant way. Her face scrunches up, lips puckering and eyes firmly shut, forcing the remaining liquid to go down her throat and not out her mouth.

“I know, doesn’t mean I don’t like receiving validation,” Visenya remarks after managing to swallow the swill disguised as ale, glancing towards the sole window in the room. The sun is starting to set, and swiftly, night time will come before either of them have a chance to blink. Visenya pushes back her chair, the wood screeching against the floors. 

“Hmm,” Geralt simply replies, pouring a cup of ale for himself, and drinking it similarly as Visenya. However, he manages to keep any unpleasant expressions off his attractive face. Her eyes rest on his lips, gaze focusing on a droplet of ale that hangs precariously on his lips, nearly falling to the ground. A part of her wants to place her lips on his, to test if maybe the ale would be sweeter coming from his lips. But she snaps her eyes away quickly and banishes the thought, not wanting to linger on it for too long. 

“So where are we off to,” Visenya asks. She turns away from the table, grabbing her pack and beginning to shuffle around in it. “I can’t remember where they take residence, so I can’t be help there but--” Visenya starts to ramble, but Geralt cuts her short. 

“What do you mean?” Geralt asks, standing from his chair as well. Visenya turns around, her cloak in hand. 

“I mean, where are we going? We are planning on killing this alp aren’t we?” Visenya asks, raising a brow at Geralt. 

“I am going to kill the alp. You’re staying here,” Geralt says. His voice is stern, his mind set, leaving no room for argument. But Visenya has never been good at just sitting down and letting other people make decisions for her. 

“Are you serious? You’re trying to keep me out of this?” Visenya says, disbelief lacing every word. She laughs, a mocking one that lacks any warmth or humor. 

“You’re not ready for an alp,” Geralt says, maintaining his cool and unattached demeanor. Yet Visenya notices a faint twitch in his eye, annoyance with her constant need to question every choice he makes. 

“Not for a nightwraith either, apparently. Yet I helped kill that too,” Visenya says, her temper flaring, fire lacing her words.

“And almost died in the process,” Geralt says, his voice rising just a hair. Visenya scoffs, rolling her eyes, staring at the ceiling for a second before returning her gaze to Geralt. 

“Every situation that involves fighting also involves almost dying. That’s how fighting works, there’s always a chance you won’t come out alive,” Visenya says, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“So you throw yourself into every fight, even the ones you don’t have the capabilities to win?” Geralt asks, sarcasm distorting his question. 

“Precisely,” Visenya says, turning away from Geralt and throwing her traveling cloak over her shoulder, clasping it so it’ll stay on properly. She grabs her bag and sword, slinging the bag over her shoulder and attaching her sheath to her hip. 

“You can throw yourself into suicide battles with someone else, you aren’t coming,” Geralt says, the volume of his voice continuing to rise. 

“Yes, I am. What’s the point of me being around if I’m not being useful?” Visenya exclaims, stepping towards Geralt. She feels like a child again, being scolded for wanting to learn how to fight rather than perfecting her needlepoint or sewing skills. 

“You can come on the next hunt,” Geralt says.

“That’s what you said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that!” Visenya yells, waving her arm in Geralt’s direction, emphasizing her anger and frustration.

“You weren’t ready any of those times!” Geralt counters. Visenya slams her fist against the wooden table, the impact causing the ale to nearly tip over. Pain blossoms on the spot that made contact with the table, but Visenya can’t be bothered by it at the moment. 

“Damn it Geralt! Apparently, I’ll never be ready according to you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. The candles in the room wildly flicker, nearly going out as the temperature in the room drops, subtly at first, until it’s nearly as cold in the room as the outside. Heat rises in Visenya, growing stronger with each passing moment. The smell of burning fills the room, light smoke wafting from the table into the air. 

Like suddenly falling into ice, Visenya removes her hands from the table. There’s a clear burn mark in the vague shape of her fist, the wood lightly charred. She sighs, loudly, closing her eyes and relaxing her clenched fists. The warmth in the room returns, the candles flickering with life once more. Her heart pounds, mind completely blank. 

Silence. 

“I need air,” she mutters after a moment, not bothering to glance at Geralt. And before he can react, she flies out of the room, slamming the door behind her. 

##  _**o0o0o** _

Night cloaks Visenya, hiding her from any prying eyes and wandering gazes that hold no good intentions. She pulls the cloak closer to her body, hood up and head down, eager to be free from this stifling small village. The air is cool, but it’s refreshing, easily tempering the fire in her. 

“Get it together, Visenya!” she whispers, smacking a hand against her forehead, hoping the sting from the pain might smack some reason into her. 

A child. That’s what she’s acting like. Screaming and throwing a tantrum when she doesn’t get what she wants. It’s irrational. And pathetic. Whining and crying won’t get Geralt to agree to let her come, but that doesn’t temper the frustration she feels when he won’t. She’s not a child, she’s a woman, who can make her own decisions. Why should Visenya need a keeper to tell her what battles to and not to get involved in? 

She continues marching forward, quickly leaving the village and all her anger behind. The grass is longer, instead of brushing against her ankles, it reaches the middle of her calves in certain spots. The trees are thick, their lush canopy of leaves acting like a guardian protecting her in their beauty. It’s almost like the Godswood, but not nearly as beautiful, yet it evokes similar feelings in her. She deeply inhales, releasing it a moment later, allowing her tense body to melt and fly off with the breeze. Subconsciously, her hand grazes the embroidered direwolf, lightly tracing it with the tip of her finger.

_**Snap.** _

A twig cracks, echoing in the silence. Visenya pauses, head snapping up, eyes raking the surrounding area. Nothing but towering trees with shadows acting as cloaks. She turns around, hand ghosting over her sheathed blade. Her breathing is quick and uneven, hands shaking ever so slightly. Her lip trembles and she bites down on it, unwilling to show signs of fear or weakness. 

“Who’s there?” she calls out. “Reveal yourself, now!” she demands, eyes scanning the path behind her. 

Silence.

She lets out a breath, watching as it appears only to dissipate into the cold air. She lowers her hand from her weapon, moving down the path she came from, eager for the warmth and light the tavern offers. 

_**Snap.** _

She world around, gold eyes blazing like a fire in the thick of night. The forest seems endless, shadows dancing at the corner of Visenya’s vision, mocking her with deafening silence and blinding loneliness. 

“I said, who is there.” Her voice is stone, not allowing even a glimmer of fear to seep into it. It cuts through the darkness like a freshly sharpened knife, her voice echoing far beyond what vision can perceive. 

_**Snap.** _

Another twig, this time closer than the previous two. Like she’s made of air, Visenya quickly turns, but instead of stifling nothingness, a figure stands a few inches away. It’s a woman, with blood-like hair flows over her bare shoulders, the tips of it resting on its stomach. Her skin is pale, nearly grey in hue, but what’s most alarming isn’t her lack of clothing nor the murder in her eyes, but the blood splattered all over her. Some of it is dry, coating parts of her body like armor, while a few splatters appear to be fresh, still dripping off its body and splashing onto the ground. 

It smiles a twisted smile that perfectly displays all her sharp teeth, tinted crimson from the blood. 

An alp. 

“Fuck.”

They move in unison, Visenya unsheathing her blade as the woman - or creature - lunges forward. It proves to be faster, body-slamming her to the ground. Its hands grab a hold of Visenya’s nails digging into her flesh. She screams but clamps her mouth shut, not willing to feed the lust for blood and pain in the creature’s eyes. It snarls, pushing against Visenya’s arms with inhuman strength, pressing them onto the damp ground. It hisses, droplets of drool tainted with blood falling onto Visenya’s face. She thrashes, attempting to force the beast off of her. 

Her eyes feel heavy, suddenly, the desire to sleep and never wake up washing over her like a tsunami. But she fights against it. 

‘If I sleep now, I’m dead. Stay. Awake,’ she keeps repeating in her head, willing the words to manifest into reality. 

It hisses once more, almost mockingly. It leans down, inches away from sinking her teeth in Visenya’s throat. Visenya lifts her head, siphoning all the strength she can manage and smashes her forehead against the beast. It wails, falling back in pain, allowing Visenya to scramble out from under it. The creature continues to scream, the noise deafening. The sound causes her insides to twist and her head pound, to the point that she fears it might burst. She grabs the sides of her face with both hands, hoping to muffle the sound and make the pain stop. She closes her eyes, thoughts blurring together, as memories she only sees in her dreams fare to life in her head.

_“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent. Arise, Visenya of House Targaryen, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” Jaime Lannister’s face appears in her vision, a much younger version than the one she’d last seen. His gold hair is soft and thick, falling perfectly into place. He holds a wooden sword in one of his hands, resting the flat part of it on her shoulder._

_Visenya giggles, the noise hazy and unclear. She stands from her kneeling position, curtseying to Jaime, stumbling forward, and nearly face planting._

_“Thank you, good ser,” she replies, a beaming smile on her childish face. He kneels, so his eyes meet hers. He holds out the small wooden sword, the size suited for a child of five._

_“Now go, protect your mother Queen. It is your duty as a sworn member of her Queensguard,” he says._

“Fuck!” she screams. She rapidly blinks, attempting to force the images away. There’s too much danger, too much at stake to lose focus for even a second. The creature prowls towards Visenya, grabbing onto her leg and pulling her body towards it. Like a sack of grain, her body drags in the mud towards the monster. Visenya is powerless to fight back, only able to pray that the pain in her mind and body will go away. The creature flips her body: back against the ground and face looking towards the sky. She kicks her legs, managing to miss the alp each time. Its hands continue to move up Visenya’s body as it pulls her closer. 

_“Where are we going, Ser Jaime? Shouldn’t you be protecting my grandfather?” Visenya asks, rushing to keep up with Jaime’s longer strides._

_“I need to show you something,” he says, voice grim but not harsh, yet it lacks the mirth normally present. He stops outside a door, and in her desperation to catch up, she nearly smacks into his legs, but narrowly avoids it since Jaime stops her body. He opens the door, which creaks loudly as it swings fully open. They’re in a room Visenya is all too familiar with, her mother’s chambers._

_“Why are we--” Visenya begins, but cuts herself off as Jaime moves into the room. He strides through it, eyes focusing on one wall in particular. She rushes after him, eyes alight with curiosity she needs to sate._

_He stops in front of a wall, crouching down. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge Visenya, even as her smaller feet patter against the stone floor, getting closer to him. She pauses only when she stands beside Jaime, grabbing his arm with one hand, placing her small head on his armored shoulder. A wall, there’s nothing else there but a wall; yet his eyes trace it intently, searching for something she can’t see._

_“A wall?” Visenya asks brows furrowed with a small pout on her lips._

_“It’s not just a wall, look.” Jaime runs his hand down the wall, pausing on one spot. He digs his fingers into it, grasping onto… something. Visenya watches with wide eyes as a portion of the wall slides open, revealing a small opening in the wall - large enough to fit a child and no more. “A crawlspace.”_

_“Why’d you show me this? I don’t need to hide?” Visenya asks, tilting her head to the side in confusion. She turns and looks at Jaime, her nose twitching slightly as she looks up at him._

_“You will. The war isn’t going well, and if the city is attacked I need you to promise you’ll hide here?” Jaime pleads, speaking in a hushed tone, keeping the words hidden in her mother’s chamber._

_“I don’t--” Visenya starts, but is cut off before she can argue further._

_“Promise me,” Jaime says again, his voice more pleading and desperate. It’s a funny sight thinking back on it with adult eyes and a jaded mine: the lion begging for something, throwing aside all pride and appearances of regalness._

_Visenya hesitates, watching him carefully for a moment, eyes too sharp for a child of five._

_“I promise.”_

Visenya slams her head against the dirt ground, trying to get the distant memories out of her head, hoping to force her body to stay awake and not succumb to sleep. Long, sharp, dirtied nails grab a hold of her shirt, pulling up her upper body. It snarls, lunging its face towards Visenya’s neck. 

Searing hot pain spreads through her body. Yet it doesn’t leave her on fire, instead, it’s numbing like ice. Momentarily, the pain it’s screech caused is soothed, only to return tenfold. It’s like a million daggers are stabbing into her body, over and over again, in the dead of winter. She begins convulsing, screaming, louder than before. 

_“Well, if it isn’t little Visenya. Look at you, you’re not a child anymore, no, you’re fully grown, fighting Robb Stark’s little war,” Jaime Lannister says, sarcasm and mocking lacing every word. He lifts his dirt-caked face, looking up at Visenya with wide green eyes that somehow manage to still sparkle, even in all the filth that surrounds them._

_“Shut up. I didn’t come here to talk to you,” Visenya says, keeping her voice as cool and calm as the winter winds. Her voice is low as to not alert any nearby guards, allowing the heavy wind to obscure most of her words._

_“Really? Come to just see the spectacle then? See the state of the man who killed your grandfather and ruined your life?” Jaime spits, but he lacks any real venom. He’s like a lion, trying to make himself appear as large as possible in hopes of avoiding real conflict. Visenya ignores him, however, moving closer into his cell without fear._

_“Or maybe you want to laugh?” Jaime mutters, banging his head against the post he’s chained to_

_Silence is his only response. Visenya moves further into his cell, holding something cold and metal in her hands that glints in the moonlight. Once she’s within arm's length from Jaime, she crouches onto the ground, purple meeting green._

_“Well come one, don’t leave--” Jaime begins, but promptly shut his mouth, tightly clenching his jaw with furrowed brows._

_**Thud.** _

_The metal chains fall to the ground, inches away from Jaime. His eyes follow the chains that no longer bound him, lines of confusion appearing on his forehead underneath the dirt and blood on it._

_“Thank you, for my life,” Visenya mutters. Jaime moves his gaze back to her, and in her glossy eyes, he softens his armor - if only for a moment. Visenya begins to shake, like a leaf in a storm, remembering the simpler times that she ran around The Red Keep like a wild animal, and when Jaime Lannister wasn’t enemy number one to her family. Then like the wind, Visenya turns, quickly disappearing into the night._

She tries to headbutt the creature again, but she can’t move her head far enough to attempt it.

‘Fire, use fire!’ Visenya yells at herself, willing the flames that usually dance under her skin to flare to life. But nothing happens. She closes her eyes, focusing harder this time, trying to replicate the feelings swirling in her mind when she argued with Geralt. Tries to reign in the adrenaline from the Cintran Betrothal Feast or even the anger and grief she was drowning in at Blaviken. 

Nothing, not even a flicker of heat. 

She lets out a cry of frustration as the alp continues to drain her of blood. The world becomes dark, eyes heavier than previously. She continues to shake, trying to fight off the beast, even when her limbs feel like dead weight. Moments later, everything begins to feel light, the pain and fear slowly slipping away until she feels nothing at all. Eventually, her eyes flutter closed, the world turning black.


	15. Silver and Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sof Geralt being soft in this chapter

_“Visenya.” A soft voice echoes in Visenya’s head. It’s delicate and feminine, oozing warmth and comfort. Her name distorts, sounding distant yet close all at the same time. It’s familiar, a voice she’s heard before, but she’s not sure where from. It leaves a hole in her chest, reigniting a deep sadness she’s repressed for so long, but she doesn’t know why._

_“Visenya.” There it is again, the voice is closer this time, clearer than before. It causes another pang of pain in her chest, her head throbbing and heart aching._

_But she doesn’t know why._

_“Visenya.” This time there’s more force behind the words, a command rather than a whisper. It’s firm and stern, like a scolding mother._

“Wake. Up.” A different voice this time. 

Her eyes shoot open; heavy breaths and a racing heart accompanying her awakening. Left and right, her eyes dart around the surrounding area. She’s in a tent it would seem, the canvas of it worn and stained, speckled with small tears here and there. It’s relatively empty, sans the wooden table that’s low to the floor, glass bottles and herbs littering its surface. It’s calm, the scent of earthy herbs and sweet florals heavenly, but it’s unfamiliar. 

None of this is familiar, and it immediately sets her on edge.

“You’re awake, good.” It’s a woman, the same voice that commanded her to awaken. Visenya looks to her right, eyes wild and nearly feral. It _is_ a woman. She’s dirty, with tangled dark brown hair and tan skin that looks sun kissed. Her eyes are a piercing green, nearly looking through her soul with so much as a glance.

“For a moment I was worried my healing abilities have failed me. I am proud to see they have not.” She speaks with a heavy accent like the common tongue is not common to her at all. The lilt is familiar, similar to the way the elves spoke, but oh so different. It’s thicker, heavier, and more foreign than theirs had been. 

Visenya doesn’t speak, barely even breathes as she watches the woman, wariness clouding her eyes. Her eyes flit to the woman’s ears, the pointed ends of them sticking out through her shroud of hair. An elf, she should’ve guessed as much.

“Don’t tell me your ability to speak has left you, girl?” Her words are devoid of humor, deadpan, and monotonous, yet they aren’t cruel or harsh. Instead, she speaks more like a stern mother. Visenya opens her mouth and then closes it, not sure of what to say. 

What do you even say to a stranger who’s also your savior?

“You saved me.” It’s not a question, but a statement, an accusation hidden beneath the cracks in her voice. No one does anything for free, there’s always some type of trade-off. 

“I did.” She answers, standing from her crouching position near Visenya, moving towards the small workbench. She’s tall, head only inches away from the canvas ceiling. She’s willowy and delicate in appearance, not at all equipped with the body of a warrior. Yet, she’s not frail, with an aura around the woman that speaks of death and mysticism. 

“Why?” Visenya demands, attempting to sit up, but the pain in her body stops her. She groans, only managing to prop her body up with her elbows. 

“Do I need a reason to not leave an innocent to die in the forest?” The woman counters, turning her head to briefly glance at Visenya before returning her eyes to the mortar in her hands. “That alp has taken enough lives, there was no need for it to take yours as well.”

Visenya squints her eyes as they flit around the room, trying to scope out any potential weapons that would be of use to her if things go south. Her eyes move back to the woman.

“I’m human,” Visenya says as if those two words are the only answer needed as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. The woman hums quietly, the noise overflowing with amusement. 

“I did not think you were not.” The woman responds. She grabs a small pale green herb, placing it in the mortar, and begins to create a paste with the pestle. 

“Yet you still saved me,” Visenya says, her frustration growing as the seconds tick by, losing patience with this mysterious woman. While she saved her life, games and half-truths are not something she likes to play. A trait she seems to have picked up from Lord Stark.

“Yes, as I said before, you were dying in the forest. You’ve done nothing to warrant me leaving you to the crows.” the woman responds, unbothered by Visenya’s less than kind attitude. 

“But humans have. They’ve done horrible, terrible things to your people.” Visenya says. She’s in near hysterics, trying to understand why this woman won’t fully answer her question, instead, she gives her half-answers that just spin her mind in circles. 

“They have, but you have not, Jane.” 

Mind blank, all previous thoughts are gone, tension cuts through the noise in the tent-like a knife. Her heart slows, one beat for what should’ve been every two beats. 

_‘How did she--’_

“I never told you my name, yet you know it. How?” Visenya demands, desperately trying to sit up once more, only to be met with more sharp pain in her body. A million tiny needles stab into her body, overwhelming her until it’s the only thing she can focus on.

The woman sighs and turns around, her mortar in hand. She looks down at Visenya with sharp eyes and a stern expression, as if she’s an unruly child, quickly closing the distance between them. With one hand and minimal effort, she pushes Visenya back so that her back is pressing against a trunk that lies behind her. The pain, however, doesn’t subside. The woman brings the potion up to Visenya's mouth, but she closes her mouth tightly, refusing even a drop of the mystery liquid. 

“Drink.” the woman commands, but Visenya stubbornly shakes her head. The woman sighs once more, muttering something under her breath in a foreign tongue. 

“This will help with the pain. Now drink, you stubborn child.” She holds up the potion to Visenya’s lips once more, and this time, she apprehensively drinks the concoction. It’s bitter and fiery hot as it slides down her throat, yet manages to ease the pain shooting through her body. 

A moment of silence passes as Visenya finishes swallowing the drink. But it doesn’t last for long. Too many questions fly around in Visenya’s mind to allow for that.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Visenya says, less uneasy yet still wary of the woman, the vulnerability of her position enough to keep her alert. 

“Do not fear, I did not come by your name in some insidious manner. Filavandrel speaks of you, very often, if I might add.” From this distance, Visenya can see the faint lines up her eyes, the small wrinkles framing both ends of her lips. 

“That still doesn't answer how you know I’m her,” Visenya says, pressing for more information, drinking it up like she’s been deprived of water for days.

“He spoke of your dragon blade. It was a wild guess, but it appears to have been the right one.” There’s a sly glimmer in her green eyes, an almost teasing tone in her voice. Visenya nods her head, allowing silence to wash over them for a brief moment, only to break it again. 

“Filavandrel speaks of me?” Visenya asks, darting her gaze to the other side of the canvas.

“Quite a bit. It would seem you made an impression on him,” the woman stands from her crouching position and moves away from Visenya. “He seems to believe you would be a great ally.” 

At that, Visenya scoffs, shaking her head at the thought. 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use, I seem to find myself nearly dying quite a bit,” she says, a sardonic grin on her face. 

The woman hums, neither agreeing or disagreeing. 

“That could be true, but it could also not be,” the woman muses, eyes shining with a smirk pulling at her lips. She stares at nothing, eyes nearly glazing over for a moment before snapping back into reality, returning her gaze to Visenya.

“Now, I believe you need to get back to your Witcher. Who knows what he might do if you don’t return soon.” 

Visenya nods, glancing down at her hands. Geralt would be worried sick, or he may just think she abandoned him and has left the town already. Her stomach churns at the thought, but she quickly writes it off as a fear of being alone. Because she would be. Jaskier is in high court and… beyond him and Geralt she has no one else, not in this world at least. 

“That would be best,” Visenya says, making the third attempt to stand up. This time, she isn’t assaulted with intense, mind-numbing pain, allowing her to successfully get to her feet. The woman sweeps past her, dark hair flying into Visenya's face, momentarily blinding her, the sweet scent of honeysuckle filling her senses. She walks out of the tent, leaving the flap open for Visenya to walk through. 

She slowly steps out of the tent, the soft rays of dawn coaxing her out into the light. She continues walking, she and the mysterious woman switching positions. Visenya now faces the tent, while the woman’s back is to it. 

“Thank you --” The cracks of daylight begin to pierce through the darkness, illuminating the woman in a beautiful and ethereal manner.

“Vanya. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance Jane, even if you spent most of our time together knocked out.” Humor fills her voice, a small smile creeping onto her face as well. 

“That’s probably why you think it was a pleasure,” Visenya snidely mutters, a sarcastic tilt to her grin. The woman cracks a larger smile, shoving a poultice and potion into Visenya’s arms, both of which are heavily wrapped in fresh bandages. 

“You’ll need to change them every few hours. Take that potion for pain, and the poultice to ease the scarring.” The woman - Vanya - turns to enter her tent, but pauses, turning to face Visenya once more. “And do not fear, the creature has been slain.”

“Again, thank you for saving me.” Visenya says, and Vany nods, a solemn look on her fair face. Once again, she turns to re enter her tent, but pauses midway into it, turning and looking at Visenya. 

“You may find one day you may be returning the favor, war can be a fickle thing.” And with that she disappears back into her tent, leaving Visenya outside, all alone. 

War, what war? Would there be a war? And if so, with who, and why is she so sure Visenya will be involved?

With nothing else to do or say, Visenya simply turns, making her way back to the small inn, where Geralt is hopefully still residing. Mind swimming with more questions and unanswered riddles than she came with. 

##  _**o0o0o** _

The sun continued to rise, closely following behind her as she walked back to the inn, almost coaxing her towards it. And when she finally arrives at her destination, it’s eerily silent when she steps back into it. The quiet is totally unlike the rowdy cheers and jeers from only hours prior. There are more than a few patrons passed out in various positions; some at tables, some on the floor, and even one lying on the counter. The barkeep is nowhere to be seen, probably fast asleep in his bed by now. The stench of old alcohol and drunken men stings her nose, causing her face to scrunch up in distaste.

_Drunks are the same no matter where you go._

The floor creaks under the weight of her feet, the only other noise in the room besides heavy snores and her own breathing. Like a ghost she moves through the room, quickly reaching the old wooden stairs. They creak more than the wooden floor, each step louder than the previous. Luckily, no one wakes up, completely oblivious to Visenya and her presence. 

She climbs the stairs quickly, moving down the long hallway, passing various doors, but paying them no mind. Her mind is solely focused on the one door, the one that the person she dreads seeing most waits behind. And when she does reach the door, her heart is pounding, hands shaky and sweaty from the anxiety coursing through her. She reaches out a hand, tightly gripping the ice-cold metal of the doorknob. 

One twist to the right, and it unlatches with a soft click. 

It slowly swings open, taking its sweet time, moaning and groaning as it does. She places one foot in the room, the wood creaking beneath her step, and then another step. Now she fully stands in the room, gently closing the door behind her. 

The room is quiet, eerily so. The fire doesn’t crackle and spit as it did before, candles don’t flicker in and out; growing stronger and stronger only to then die out and repeat the process. There isn’t the hum of sleepy mutterings or deep breaths going in and out. Nor the sound of rustling under itchy wool blankets.

Silence. 

Visenya moves further into the room, holding her breath, afraid to break the silence and cause a storm. 

Another step into the room, she walks on the balls of her feet, wanting to muffle each step as much as possible. Her eyes focus on Geralt’s still body, which lies in a heap of tangled blankets and long limbs. She pauses in the middle of the room and watches him breathing with his eyes closed, lashes delicately kissing his sharp cheekbones. 

He’s beautiful, inhuman in a way. And technically, she knows that's true. The blood coursing through his veins isn’t human, and certainly isn’t the same as the blood in hers. They call him a mutant, but he doesn’t look like one, nor act like one. They treat him the same way they treat the monster that nearly took her life, but he isn’t. 

He’s more mythical like he’s pulled directly from the tales woven together about a legendary hero with god's blood who's been sent to save the world. The gods themselves molded him from clay, meticulously carving every curve in his cheeks and the sharp line of his jaw until they breathed life into him. It’s the only way someone could be so beautiful, genetics are never that kind to anyone. 

But it’s more than just his aesthetic appearance. It’s the subtle way he cares for those around him. The quiet laugh that never bubbles out of his lips, but Visenya knows it’s there, just under the surface. She can see it in his eyes, the way they light up, the humor he tries to hide behind stony glares and icy eyes. He cares, as much as he tries to pretend he doesn’t, she knows he does. 

Her heart flutters, face flushing the more she thinks about Geralt, pulling herself into daydreams she can’t remember after they flit from her mind. 

“I didn’t think you’d come back.” His voice is husky and rough, not smooth and silky as it normally is. It’s like sandpaper scraping against her bare skin. His eyes are wide open, the bed creaking and blankets rustling as he sits up. 

Visenya is mute, unable to find the right words to say. He turns his body, sitting up and looking right at her, more specifically, the bandages wrapping around her upper body. 

Suddenly his sullen expression sours, morphing into one of fury and anger. 

“You went looking for it.” It isn’t a question, the ice in his voice not allowing for anything that she might say to soothe it. She swallows thickly, mind a blur, and hands sweaty. 

“No,” is all she utters, it’s the only thing she can say. Geralt raises a brow, his eyes speaking without his mouth moving an inch. 

_‘I don’t believe you._ ’ they whisper, nearly taunting her. 

“It found me,” she says, managing to soothe her nerves, even if it’s only surface level. “I wandered too far from the town, it would seem.” She tries to put some humor behind the words, to ease the tension that suffocates the two of them. 

“Did you kill it?” His voice doesn't hold as much anger in it, nor the distant coldness he prefers to wield. The ice he wielded is melting, making way for the softness hidden in his eyes, the worry for her wellbeing. 

“No. I was saved by an elf that lived in the woods. She killed it,” she replies, moving closer to the bed, like a doe that gets scared by the slightest movement. His eyes stay on Visenya, his gaze moving from her to wounds to her face. He watches with a passive expression as she gets closer to him. 

“I’m...glad,” Geralt says. The words sound awkward and unsure like he doesn’t know what to say. It’s been an awful while since he’s had to deal with emotions beyond killing monsters and getting gold. 

“Me too.” She continues to close the distance until her knees hit the bed frame. She hesitates, not sure where to go from here. But without allowing herself to think too much, she slowly climbs into the bed, keeping her eyes on Geralt, allowing him ample time to tell her to leave. 

He never does. 

Instead, he allows her to crawl into the bed and lay down beside him, resting her head on his lap. Without hesitation, his long and deft fingers begin to comb through her tangled and matted hair, smoothing it more and more with each pass. 

Her eyes flutter shut, enjoying the sensation his fingers create by gently scraping against her scalp. The room is silent once more, but it isn’t suffocating, wrapping her in anxiety and dread. Instead, it’s calming and peaceful, lulling her into a sense of safety and security. 

“Geralt.” Her voice is hardly above a whisper, not wanting to break the intimate atmosphere in the room He hums, a cue that he’s listening and waiting for her to continue, 

“Why won’t you let me hunt with you? I’m sure with a bit of help, I could be of much more use to you.” 

His fingers pause, but only for a moment. He sharply inhales before answering, trying to find the right words to say.

“I don’t want you to die,” his voice is low and rough, but not scratchy or raw, it’s almost vulnerable in a way. 

Her brows furrow, eyes squinting as she stares at the ceiling. 

“Everyone dies eventually.”

And it's true. Death is something that inevitably will dig its claws into everyone, no matter how powerful or wealthy they may be. Her mind momentarily flickers to Stregobor, the mage who thinks so highly of himself and is so sure that he will always escape death’s clutches unscathed. But he won’t. Visenya will make sure of it. She doesn’t know how, and she doesn’t know when. But eventually, she’ll pay him back for all the suffering he’s caused. 

After all, she did promise him that day, after Geralt left the town and Renfri’s dead body dragged into his tower. She swore to him that she would kill him. And she intends to keep her promises. 

Her eyes move, landing on Geralt, focusing on his eyes that seem to gleam in the candlelight, more of a rich amber than a startling yellow. Gods, he’s beautiful in any light, but especially in soft candle light. 

“Filavandrel has been speaking of me. I suppose he thinks I’m important or something. The elf - Vanya told me so,” Visenya mutters, thinking back on Vanya’s words, how apparently Filavandrel has spoken so much about her that she managed to recognize her by her sword alone. 

“Aren’t you?” Geralt asks a slight bit of mirth tinting his voice. 

“I don’t feel like it,” she responds, deeply sighing as she saturates herself in the silence, hoping for a semblance of peace in the calamity of her mind. 

Geralt continues raking his fingers through her hair, but suddenly pauses, hand resting on her scalp. He gently grabs onto a chunk of hair, holding it up and carefully inspecting it. 

“Silver,” he whispers, voice so quiet, almost as if Visenya wasn’t supposed to hear. But she does. Her eyes instantly open, flitting to Geralt, wide with panic and uncertainty. She begins to try and sit up, to put as much distance between the two of them. But Geralt's grip on her hair stops her, he isn’t rough nor is his touch painful but it’s enough to keep her from moving too much. 

“What’d you say?” she asks.

“Your natural hair is silver.” Geralt's tone isn’t accusatory nor judgmental; it’s even and calm. 

“It is,” she replies, uncertainty lacing every word. Her mind is nothing but white walls, impatiently waiting for Geralt’s next move. He couldn’t know the significance of silver hair, wouldn’t know what a Targaryen is even if she tells him. And yet the fear of being found out claws at her, the worry that if she appears as a Targaryen she may act like one. And while not all of them were mad, she still fears that she may. It’s irrational and silly, yet the fear tightly grips her heart none-the-less. 

“And you dye it. Why?” he asks, eyes moving from the small bundle of hair he holds back to her face. His hands release the hair and it falls back onto her head. 

“Silver isn’t exactly inconspicuous,” she answers, trying to make her voice as nonchalant and unbothered as possible. 

“Are you trying to hide from someone, Jane?” Geralt asks. Without another thought, Visenya opens her mouth, voice hardly above a whisper, the words barely leaving her lips. 

“I feel like I’ve been hiding my whole life.” 

Technically, untrue, her survival and location was never a secret. Everyone knew that Lord Eddard Stark took in the Targaryen princess as his ward, raising her side by side with his own. But inside, there was always this peculiar feeling, a horror so deeply embedded within her that one wrong move would cause her to lose her head. So she tried to be as plain as possible, only showing her true colors around a few select people, that circle growing smaller as she grew bigger.

Technically, her existence has never been a secret, but she's always hidden different pieces of herself from people. That's something that didn't change, even when the world she lives in did.

Geralt nods, not speaking another word. Visenya shifts, no longer lying on him, yet she stays close enough that she can feel the rumble of his breathing, watching the rise and fall of his chest.

He says nothing, and neither does she. His eyes remain wide open, as do hers. Only when the sun rises to the top of the sky, bathing the world beneath it in its warm glow does she speak. Her throat is dry and the words as quiet as a whisper, but they echo in the room as if she screamed them.

"Call me Visenya."


	16. Steel for Humans

He’s looking at her again. **  
**

She can feel it; a shiver up her spine, the prickling feeling in the back of her mind to be alert for something, all telltale signs of his eyes on her. Every time she turns to meet his gaze, to try and decipher the whys and what’s in his eyes, he looks away. And in the midst of all of her uncertainty, she’s sure of at least one thing, he’s still reeling from her confession, despite it being weeks since her name, her real name slipped from her lips. He doesn’t say that he’s still trying to piece together the puzzle, but he doesn’t need to. She can see it in the way he carries himself around her, his lingering eyes and stumbling words.

More than a few times he’s called her Jane, instinctively, if she were to have to guess. And each time she just simply raises a brow at him before he swiftly corrects himself, eyes wild and uncertain, unable to directly look into hers. She never gets mad or annoyed, the exact opposite, in fact. She’s never seen this side of Geralt that resembles a fumbling boy who still isn’t a man yet; all rosy cheeks and shy conversation. Normally Geralt is so put together, constantly in control of the situation, and yet, something as simple as a name change is all it takes to throw him off. 

Another thing she’s certain of is just how much she enjoys the way he says her name, the smooth Valyrian name effortlessly slipping past his lips. It’s like a symphony, a sound not even the most renowned of bards could replicate. But she’d never tell him that. 

She continues staring at her face in the old mirror, dust and cracks speckling across her reflection. But she looks past it, staring at her eyes that are like liquid gold, and her fair skin, nearly glowing in the dim light. She frowns, lines appearing around her mouth - lines that weren’t always there. Under her eyes are small wrinkles, hidden by the dark circles from countless sleepless nights in the least ideal spots, but she can pick them out a mile away.

She’s older, that much is obvious, but how much older is not.

She used to count each day, the wall near the bed in her old room in Blaviken covered in small little lines meant to represent every time she fell asleep. She stopped keeping track after the town burned to the ground. At first, it was too painful to think of anything beyond the basic necessities of her survival. But then time drifted away, things grew easier the longer she spent with Jaskier. She smiled more, laughed more, and felt lighter than she had in a long time. And now she finds herself in an odd position, unsure of how much older she is. 

“Geralt.” She doesn’t remove her eyes from her reflection. He grunts, a sign that he’s listening. Always a man of few words. 

“How long has it been since Blaviken?” She hears a sharp intake of breath before it’s released back into the air. It’s silent a moment longer.

“You don’t know?” Geralt asks, skepticism and disbelief abundant in his voice. 

“No.” She reaches a hand up, tracing the new scars that mare her face, they’re faint, nothing more than a whisper on her face. To everyone else, they’re only visible in the flicker of a candle at the right angle, but she’s always aware of them.

“Fifteen years." 

Her hand drops, limp at her side. She turns a flurry of hair and wind, facing Geralt with an odd expression on her face. She can’t discern how to feel with that revelation. How is one supposed to react upon figuring out the fifteen years have passed, and they don’t even know it? She wants to protest, to scream that he’s lying to her, and demand that he tell her the truth, the real truth and not some practical joke. But the longer she thinks on it, her eyes resting on Geralt’s stone face, the more it makes sense. 

She thinks back to Winterfell, trying to remember the smells of her previous home. To remember how everything felt under her fingertips - whether it be in the warm castle or the icy cold. She tries to recall how everyone looked the last time she saw them, tried to visualize their exact heights in comparison to hers, to recall small imperfections that made them not smooth porcelain dolls. Only then, when she focuses so hard on doing just that, does she realize she can’t even remember their faces. She can see their general shapes, her mind recognizing them as either Jon, Robb, or anyone else important enough to remember. But when she tries to zoom in and make their faces clearer, they’re nothing but humanoid-like blurs. 

Her face twitches, in discomfort or shock, she’s not sure. 

"Huh.” It’s the only thing she manages to say, unable to force her mind to think of another response or to form the words with her mouth. She’s utterly frozen in place. 

She almost allows her mind to wander, thinking of what may have happened to the rest of the Stark children. Would they have found peace and safety, or would they have blown away like leaves in the wind, desolated by monsters and grief? But she banishes the thoughts before they could form. What would be the point? All it would do is pull her into another bout of melancholy, the same suffering she was drowning in whilst hiding away in Blaviken. So she does what she’s best at; she takes all unpleasant thoughts and ghosts and locks them into a little box in the back of her mind. Leaving it to collect dust until it’s long forgotten. 

“You didn’t know that?” Geralt asks, breaking his statue-like posture to step closer to Visenya. She doesn’t answer, she simply shakes her head, her breathing shaky and unsteady. 

_‘Fifteen years.’_

The number echoes in her mind, it’s on repeat and she finds herself unable to escape it. He’s silent, Geralt is always silent. But she welcomes it, more so now than ever. 

Her fingers begin to count down as she counts up, the numbers hardly above the breaths she takes. She looks down at the ground, counting the grain in the wooden floors. 

_“21, 22, 23, 24…"_

She pauses, finishing the math in her mind. She opens her mouth, cautiously.

"Thirty-five… I’m thirty-five years old now.” It makes sense, her face appears much older than when she first arrived, the lines and crow’s feet not just a result of poor living conditions and battle scars. 

“Is that a bad thing?” Geralt asks. Visenya looks up at him. His facial expression remains much the same as before, but his eyes glow with a hint of curiosity. Not that he would ever admit to it if she ever called him out on it. 

“No, I just– never thought I’d make it this far,” Visenya says, a sardonic grin pulling at her lips that looks more like a grimace than anything. 

“With the life, you’ve had–” Geralt starts, his voice low and raspy, but Visenya cuts him off with a bout of laughter that sounds more like knives than bells. He closes his mouth, simply raising a brow at Visenya. 

“You have no idea, Geralt of Rivia.” She shakes her head, the grin-grimace hybrid still on her face, yet her eyes tell a different story. They’re despondent and regretful, and Geralt can’t understand why.

“Then perhaps you should tell me.” Suddenly Visenya is no longer laughing. She stares at Geralt with a type of intensity he’s never seen in her eyes before. And before he can bring himself to get used to it, to allow himself to sink in the new atmosphere that surrounds them, she dissolves it, eyes turning warm and mischievous once more.

“Give it another fifteen years, and maybe then,” she says, feather-light laughter following her words. She turns once more, hair whipping behind her as she continues to stare at her reflection. Her hair is longer, reaching a few inches below her breasts. Her roots are slightly grown out, allowing a little bit of shining silver to peek through the mud brown. She still can’t decide if she wants to continue dying it or not. But she tucks that thought away, not wanting to unpack everything that comes with those thoughts. Not after she just packed away unpleasant thoughts that are of a similar vein. 

“Plus, I’ve told you more things than I’ve told anyone else, and still I feel as though I know nothing of you,” Visenya says, turning around once more, moving away from the dingy mirror. This causes Geralt to laugh - it’s rough and dark, the complete opposite of Visenya’s. It causes shivers to rush up her spine and a fluttering sensation to form in her stomach. 

She passes by him, a hand ghosting over his shoulder. She exits the room and Geralt swiftly follows. His footsteps are much heavier than hers; she’s like a soft summer breeze while he’s the terrifying winter winds that threaten to blow everything down. 

They walk the length of the hall, down the winding staircase, and out of the inn where Roach is patiently waiting for them. Throughout their small journey, they maintained not only the same distance between one another but the same space. 

She only pauses upon reaching Roach, a hand resting on the mare’s side as she gently pets her. Visenya looks at Geralt, who now stands precisely two paces away from her - one pace closer than he had been five seconds ago. 

“Fair is fair,” she says, raising her brows. A grumble of a laugh escapes his mouth, so quiet it could almost be mistaken for the world itself shaking. His laughter causes his eyes to close for a brief second before he opens them once more.

“I can’t argue with that. In exchange for what you’ve told me, I’ll tell you about my first hunt. Does that sound like a fair bargain?” he asks, a certain lightness in his eyes that quickly disappears in the time it takes for her to blink and open her eyes again. She holds a hand out, and he places his own in it. They shake their hands, two times to be exact. 

“Sounds like a deal to me.”

##  _**oOo** _

“I’d only just left Kaer Morhen, a new Witcher who was naive enough to think I could save the world. I came across a gang of men who were about to rape a young girl, a few of them holding back the girl’s father.” Geralt says, his voice quiet and somber, but she could hear each word perfectly. They’re both riding on Roach, with Visenya in front and Geralt’s arms slung loosely around her as he holds Roach’s reins. The mare doesn’t need much guidance though, she just follows the winding road ahead of them, and neither Geralt nor Visenya corrects her. 

“And then what happened,” Visenya asks, resisting the urge to turn around and look at Geralt. He’s so good at obscuring any emotion or feelings when he speaks, often opting to talk with a monotonous voice. While hilarious when dealing witty one-liners, it makes it near impossible to discern how he feels. His eyes on the other hand are a completely different story. 

To most, they may seem as empty and dead as a poorly done painting, but Visenya can read him like an open book - spotting small flickers of different emotions. After all, Visenya often employs the same tactic to appear as cold and unfeeling as possible, it’s only natural she sees through when others try to do it to her. 

“I killed them, the bald man with the rotted teeth and all his friends. The girl’s father fled right after–” Geralt says.

“And the girl?” Visenya says, unable to stop herself from interrupting him. When he promised her a tale of his first hunt, this isn’t exactly what she expected, yet she finds herself enthralled none-the-less. A part of her wonders how different her history might’ve been if Geralt lived in Westeros. What would be different, if anything at all. She knows with complete certainty that the Geralt she knows would have no problem defeating the Mountain. But if Geralt lived in Westeros instead of here, he wouldn’t be a Witcher. Which means he’d have none of the capabilities that make him superior to mortals. So her train of thought is moot and pointless. 

But she can’t help the twitch of a smirk on her lips as she imagines Geralt slicing the Mountain’s head off his body; the cut clean and precise. And instead of a girl about to be raped by a slimy bandit, she sees the Mountain looming over her mother, and Geralt saving her just in time. 

“What happened to the girl?” This time she doesn’t fight the urge to turn and look at Geralt. She turns her head just enough to see the right side of his face. His eyes are far away, recalling memories that are probably lifetimes away. The mid-day sunlight aggressively shines onto his face, but it’s deceiving in its harshness for it provides no warmth. The air is cold and icy, freezing dead leaves and small twigs into timeless statues that will melt when summer comes again. 

“She was covered in the bald man’s blood, but unharmed, not that you’d know that with how she reacted. When I approached her, she screamed, vomited, and then passed out,” Geralt says. His tone remains even, not portraying any feelings. 

She turns her head to face the road once more, her lips pursing in concentration. 

Would her mother have reacted the same if Geralt swept into her chamber like an angel of death, white hair his halo, and the blade strapped to his back his judgment? Or would she have thanked him, tears streaming down her face as she held her screaming children? 

“And how did that make you feel?” she asks, not daring to turn and look at him once more. She fears if he takes one look at her eyes, he’ll see all the thoughts furiously swimming in the flames that dance in them. She can feel him shrug more than see it, the movement of his shoulders causing his arm to brush against her back. 

“Like shit,” he simply replies. Visenya scoffs, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips. 

She opens her mouth, a witty quip on the tip of her tongue when she’s cut off by a scream. It comes from her right, in the forest, but not so deeply hidden that the dying trees and frostbitten leaves muffle the noises. Her posture turns stiff like a board, the hairs on her body standing up straight. 

“Did you–” she begins, only to be cut off by another scream, this one more guttural than the last, yet not beast-like in nature. Visenya turns, catching Geralt’s eyes. He nods, acknowledging that the shouts aren’t just in her head, the manifestation of deeply hidden thoughts resurfacing. He hears it too. 

Without allowing a moment of hesitation or for her mind to catch up with her actions, she jumps off of Roach, unsheathing her blade. The dragon hilt is cold as ice, but soothing to the heat slowly rising in Visenya. 

A loud thud follows only a moment later, signaling that Geralt is following her lead. She’d feel touched by his lack of protest when it comes to her charging headfirst into the unknown, but the situation is far too dangerous for any distractions, even if only for a brief second. 

Blood rushing and heart pounding, she turns to ice as another scream echoes in their ears. It’s closer this time, sounding as if someone is shouting while choking on their blood. Visenya’s pace quickens, her heart racing faster as adrenaline floods her body in preparation for the potential fight that seems more likely than not as each second passes. The grip on her sword tightens as she clenches her jaw. Dozens of battle maneuvers and tactics fly through her mind, all the years of training; both in Winterfell and with Geralt blaring in her mind. 

Another scream, this one deeper than the previous. Visenya picks up her pace again, eager for this confrontation to be over before it even begins. She glances behind and Geralt is right behind her, sword unsheathed and face battle-hardened. 

For the fifth time, another scream rips through the trees, but now that they’re closer, Visenya hears the rustling of what sounds like people running. The muffled noise of jeers and mocking voices trickle into her ears.

People, they’re dealing with people, and not literal monsters. Though most times, people can be the worst type of monster there is.

With a deep breath that she quickly releases, Visenya reaches a handout, pushing away the branches that separate her and Geralt from the apparent attackers. 

'The blood of the dragon is not afraid.’

The phrase enters her mind without thought. But instead of banishing it away, she embraces it. She imagines Queen Visenya beside her, a stern expression on her beautiful face, lips curling into a snarl that would perfectly mimic Vhaegar. 

When she opens her eyes, nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. A group of six or so humans wielding various types of weapons that were dripping with blood stand in the small clearing. The source of the screams quickly became clear; a small family of elves with blood dripping from various wounds. A male elf lays on his stomach, unmoving; meanwhile, a woman cowers in a corner, pressing her body against a tree, three children with her. The smallest of the three were huddled on either side of her as she attempted to soothe them, tears streaming down her bloodied face. Meanwhile, the oldest, only looking to be seven at the most, stands in front of her, the branch from a tree between his unsteady hands. He holds it as if it’s a blade, determined to protect what remains of his family. 

The humans are bandits and not very successful ones; with worn mismatched leather armor and blades that look seconds away from rusting. But they wear sneers on the face, showing rotted teeth and foul words. They snap their attention toward Visenya who enters first and watch her for a moment as she watches them, taking in the scene before her.

She expected the worst, but nothing could’ve prepared her for this. It’s too familiar, too close to home. She feels her vision go red, blood pumping in her veins, and skin nearly burning.

“Look at this boys, no need to find a nearby brothel. Looks like our entertainment found us,” one of the men says, a twisted smirk curling on his cracked and bleeding lips. Visenya’s face contorts into a look of disgust. The other men around them laugh, cackles that sound more like screams than sounds of delight. 

Visenya tightens her grip on the hilt of her sword, teeth grinding as she clenches her jaw tighter. She takes a single step forward. 

“Pretty thing you are, and you look like a fighter. Good, I like it when they fight,” the man continues, undisturbed or intimidated by Visenya.

“And I like it when bastards like you are six feet under. Lucky for me you will be, soon,” Visenya says, her voice gravelly and harsh like a growl. She smiles, her mouth looking more like the snarl of a wolf that’s moments away from attacking. 

The man doesn’t falter, instead, he barks out a laugh, pointing his finger at Visenya as he does. 

“Funny,” he says. He nods his head at a few of the men, turning his attention back to the elf and her children. “But be a dear and be quiet. I have some business to attend to.” He lifts his blade and begins approaching the woman. The child holds his stick up high, about to try and defend his mother when the bandit just shoves him aside, knocking the kid on the ground. A loud crack resounds in the clearing as his small head collides with a protruding rock. 

The elven woman screams, crawling to try and get as far away as possible, clutching her kids tighter against her. Tears stream down her face as vigorous as a waterfall. Dread fills Visenya, all her thoughts consumed by panic. 

“No!” Visenya screams. She moves to charge him, but a grimy hand holds onto her, keeping her from running. She turns towards the man, and wildly swings her blade. It misses, but in dodging it, he loses enough of his footing that he lets go of her. 

He goes to grab her again, but before he can try, a blade slices into his neck, causing blood to gush out of the wound before he drops to the ground. Visenya doesn’t have to look to know it’s Geralt, but she does anyway. A deep scowl is set on his face, eyes blazing in a way that’s eerily similar to Visenya’s. He growls, eyes assessing the scene before them. He glances at Visenya, then moves his eyes to the leader. Visenya nods, understanding the nonverbal cue. 

_Save the girl._

“A fucking Witcher!” The man spits out. He spits turning away from the elf, no longer able to ignore the threat right in front of him. “Just kill them both, I hear Witchers make good coin.”

Then everything descends into chaos. The rest of the bandits charge Visenya and Geralt, but she pays them no mind. She nimbly dodges each one of their attacks, leaving them to Geralt. Her eyes stay on the leader, who’s eyes rest solely on her as well. He grabs a second blade from the ground, ripping it from the hands of the dead elf. He strides towards her and she meets him halfway in a clash of blades and fury. 

Their blades meet in a cross, the clang of metal ringing in her ears. She scowls as he snarls, spittle flying into her face. 

She jumps back and pivots to his side. His gaze follows her, body turning as she does. Like a butcher cutting a pig, he hacks down at her. She parries it with her blade, pushing it away as if it’s nothing more than an annoyance. His second one comes down a moment later and she dodges to the other side, the blade slicing through empty air. A third swing, his other hand comes down, this time towards her face. She crouches low to the ground as she brings her blade up to block the hit, using her lower position to steady her body as she pushes against him, both hands holding onto the hilt. 

He presses down and she pushes upward, arms shaking from the exertion. She screams, the sound eerily similar to the roar of a dragon, moments before it decimates its enemies with its fiery wrath. With a burst of power, she shoots up, causing him to stumble back. 

Right and left, she slashes her blade at him. His leather armor takes the brunt of the first hit, but the second one manages to piece into flesh. She snarls as he screeches in pain. Clammy hands begin to shakily smack against his belt, desperately looking for a blade to try and stick her with, but she doesn’t give him the chance. 

She kicks him in the abdomen. The force of it slamming his already weak body against a tree. There’s a loud crack as his body makes contact, another howl of pain escaping his mouth. 

“Stupid bit–" 

Her blade stabs into his neck, stopping him mid-sentence. Blood pours out of his mouth, a gurgling sound replacing his scratchy voice. 

"Fuck you,” Visenya says. She then spits at him, the saliva landing on his chest and disappearing into the blood. 

She sighs, the sounds of fighting die down, and she turns around. Geralt is standing in the center of the clearing, blood speckling his armor and dripping off his blades, but luckily none of the blood is his. Her tense shoulder loosens slightly, the adrenaline leaving with the threats. She tosses her blade to the side, making a mental note to clean it later. 

Turning to her right, she sees the elven woman with her children still cowering in the corner, all three of her children around her, the eldest of them knocked out cold. Now that no threats are looming over them, Visenya allows herself a moment to inspect the three of them. 

The mother looks to be middle age, with wheat blonde hair and pallid skin, her bones protruding in a way that the bones of someone well-nourished wouldn’t. Her eyes are down and as large as a doe, the sparkle in them enhanced by salty tears. 

The small girl looks nearly identical to her, her wheat hair in a messy braid that’s falling apart. She clutches her mother’s hand tighter, moving further into her the longer Visenya looks at her. The other boy is the complete opposite, with dark disheveled hair and blue eyes. His face is blotchy and wet from tears, but he doesn’t seem to fully understand why. Staring at Visenya with blank curiosity rather than fear.

“Are you hurt?” Visenya asks, making a conscious effort to make her voice as light and harmless as possible. She takes a step forward, a branch breaking under her foot. The woman gasps, pressing herself further against the tree. 

Visenya stops, holding her arms up, a nonverbal sign that she means peace. The woman doesn’t relax, not that Visenya expects her to.

“You–you–you,” the woman stutters, tears still streaming down her face, but not as frantically as they were moments ago. 

“Saved you, yes,” Visenya says, taking another step forward. The woman doesn’t cower, but her fear doesn’t lessen. 

“I don’t have coin,” she says, her voice wavering in between her sobs. Visenya shrugs, a small smile curling on her lips.

“And I have more than enough,” Visenya says. The woman continues to stare at her, not uttering a single word. It’s like they’re frozen in place, only the tears running down her cheeks and their shaking forms giving away that they’re in fact real. Visenya feels her stomach twist itself into knots. 

She should grab her blade and leave the clearing behind, get back on Roach with Geralt and ride off to the next destination. At the very least her conscience would be eased by the fact that they kept these band of idiots from hurting the woman and her children. 

_And yet…_

A voice whispers in her ear to not, that she’d never stop thinking about this moment, wondering what became of them. Did they save them from these bandits only to get robbed and left for dead by the next group of pricks with pointy swords? She couldn’t live with it, she realizes. Not if she doesn’t do everything in her power to ensure they arrive home safely and alive… wherever home is. A sigh escapes her mouth, so quiet it could be mistaken for the wind. 

“You have no reason to trust me, I get that, but at the very least I saved you from those pricks, so I can’t be that bad, right?” Visenya asks, voice rougher and blunter than she intended for it to be. Internally she winces as the woman cowers for a brief second, but then slowly she nods her head.

“Right. Your son is injured, how serious, I’m not sure. I don’t know, maybe you have some training in the art of healing, but if you’re not, at the very least, I’m no stranger to minor injuries. I can help him,” Visenya continues. The elven woman doesn’t cower anymore, her rapid tears dwindling to a light drizzle rather than a heavy pour. She nods once more, and Visenya finds herself sighing in relief. 

Without wasting another moment she takes a step forward, turning towards the child on the ground. She crouches beside him, his mother moving to be on his other side. Her shining eyes are sharp, watching Visenya with the likeness of a hawk watching its prey. 

He looks to be a mixture of his mother and presumably his father. His hair is a dirty blonde, freckles dotting his tan skin. He’s not nearly as frail as his other siblings, similar to how Jon, Robb, and Theon looked when they first started training in Winterfell. But he seems to have much less meat on his bones. 

Visenya places her warm hands on his face, lifting his head and moving a hand to gently cradle his head. There’s a large bruise blossoming on the right side of his forehead, but there’s no blood or any other signs of injury. She places a hand on his heart, feeling it beat against her hand, then slides it to the side of his neck, feeling a pulse there as well. 

“He didn’t get hit with a weapon,” the woman says, whether convincing herself of his safety or trying to feed Visenya information she isn’t sure. Or it could be a mixture of both. 

“No, but he took a hard fall, I’ve seen men twice his size get knocked on their heads and never get back up, and if they do, they’re never the same. There’s bleeding, but that doesn’t mean he’s completely safe,” Visenya says, removing her hands from his body. 

“Is there anything to be done?” she asks, picking his up and gently cradling his head in her lap. 

“Other than wait and see when he wakes? No. As I said, I’m no healer, but I have a tea that can help ease his pain. He’ll have a bad headache and sore body, that much is certain,” Visenay says. She looks over at the two other children; a girl and a boy. They’re young, that for certain, younger than the boy on the ground. 

“How much?” the woman asks, not removing her eyes from her son. Visenya’s brows furrow in confusion.

“How much what?”

“How much will I owe you for the herbs?” the woman asks again, looking Visenya directly in the eyes. Her tears are dry, but her eyes still shine from the residual dampness. 

“Nothing. He needs it now more than I do. I can buy more when I reach the next town,” Visenya says, keeping her face as pleasant as possible. The woman purses her lips, clearly in thought. Silence washes over them until it’s broken by the woman. 

“Thank you. Not many humans would show kindness to elves, much less two so well trained in fighting." 

Visenya snorts, a smirk appearing on her face. 

"One human and a mutant, actually. But you’re welcome. What good is all the fighting talent in the world if you don’t use it well,” Visenya says, slowly standing from the ground? The woman’s eyes follow her form as she stands to her full height. “Our horse is near the road. We can take you wherever home is, and make sure you get there safe.”

The woman nods, adjusting her son in her arms so that he is lying across her lap. With Visenya’s help, she stands from the ground, holding her son’s bridal style. Her two other children stay close, hiding a bit behind her, each one with a hand attached to her dress. Visenya turns, eager to leave the clearing and forget any of this happened, but the woman stopped her. 

“I’ve already lost Aldon, my husband. I could not lose my son too, I truly appreciate what you have and are doing for us.”

“I wouldn’t speak so soon,” Geralt’s gravelly voice enters the conversation. They both turn to see him kneeling beside the body, two fingers against his neck. “He’s fading, but he hasn’t died yet." 

Visenya strides towards Geralt, the woman, still holding her son, hot on her trail while her two children stay in place, silently watching with wide eyes. Visenya sits beside Geralt as the woman nearly collapses on the other side of Aldon’s body. She takes a hold of his hand, her grip so tight her fingers begin to turn white.

"Can we save him?” Visenya asks. Geralt grunts, gesturing with his head in the direction behind them. She nods, knowing what he’s saying without having to physically say it. She stands and runs the way they came in. Her feet are heavy, beating into the soil and breaking any twigs or crunchy leaves. The world is a blur around her, wind rushing against her skin. They can save him, but only if Visenya can get the supplies back to Geralt in time. 

Either by sheer dumb luck, or the gods truly have shown them favor, Roach is right where they left him. Visenya releases a heavy sigh as she beelines straight for her pack that hangs off of Roach. 

“Good horse. I’m going to give you so many apples once we reach civilization,” Visenya breathes out, untying her pack from his saddle. He neighs, happily it would seem. She smiles, patting his side a few times before turning and rushing into the forest once more. 

Everyone is in the exact spots as when she left. Geralt is leaning over Aldon with his wife sitting on the other side of his body. She clutches his hand in hers, knuckles turning white from the tightness of her grip. Her lips are quivering with large eyes, her body shaking every few minutes, the stark contrast of Geralt. With thin lips, hard eyes, and unwavering hands as he cleans the wound to the best of his ability; he’s the epitome of stone. Visenya runs towards them, tossing the bag at Geralt once she crosses halfway through the clearing. He catches it in his hand, flipping it open and rummaging through it. He pulls out various bottles; some with powders, liquids, herbs: both brushed and whole, and bandages. 

Visenya slows her pace, moving around Aldon to sit beside his wife. She glances at Visenya for a moment before looking back at her husband. She;’s breathing heavily, the sharp intakes of breath sporadic. A hiccup escapes her mouth every few seconds, eyes on her husband, waiting and hoping for any signs of recovering. Hand on the grass, it moves over until it brushes against her free hand. She doesn’t look away from her husband, but she takes Visenya’s hand, her cold body instantly feeling warmer from Visenya’s proximity. It provides comfort, a sense of reassurance that Geralt knows what he’s doing. That her husband will make it out of the mess, and this day won’t become a travesty that’s burned in her mind. 

Geralt works quickly, each minute passing in a blur. He tears strips of bandages off with his teeth, the tearing sound from it enough to keep Visenya from getting lost in her thoughts. He wipes away the blood with a cloth, pouring a liquid that smells suspiciously like alcohol over the wound. It hisses upon contact but the noise swiftly dissipates. He then grabs one of the vials that contain a thick liquid. It’s amber, with various herbs and other ingredients slightly discoloring it. He packs it into the wound, laying down multiple thick layers of the poultice. He then lifts the torso of the man just enough to wrap his torso in bandages. With her only free hand, Visenya helps him keep the body off the ground, mutely watching Geralt work. 

Finally, Geralt sighs, removing his hands from the body, the two of them gently lowering him to once again lay on the ground. Blood is no longer gushing from the wound on the side of his body, unable to seep through the dense layers above it. 

“They were pricks, but luckily they weren’t skilled pricks. He would’ve bled out, but it wasn’t a fatal blow. When he wakes he’ll be weak, but alive,” Geralt mutters. Visenya sighs, eyes moving to the elven woman. She removes her hand from Visenya’s grip, moving her child off of her lap. Visenya immediately places hands on the small boy, taking him from his mother and cradling him. The woman cries out in relief, hovering over Aldon’s body and placing a hand on his cheek. 

She looks down at the boy in her arms, noticing the way his eyes twitch under his lids. He’s dreaming, it seems. And from the small grin on his face, it’s a good one. A soft smile forms on Visenya’s face, wide eyes watching the boy, her breathing matching his. A familiar tingling sensation runs up her spine. She glances up, seeing Geralt’s gaze firmly on her. She smiles, and he returns it. They’ve done it, managed to save an innocent family, keeping them from being torn apart by stick bastards with pointy sticks. It’s…nice.

“We probably shouldn’t move him too much in fear of disturbing his wounds. How far are you from here?” Visenya asks, turning her attention back to the woman. She lifts her head, eyes moving from her husband to Visenya. They’re wet with tears again, but not tears of sorrow or fear. This time they’re from an overwhelming feeling of joy and hope she didn’t have moments ago.

“It’s a short distance, we live just on the outskirts of Brunwich,” she says. Visenya nods, opening her mouth but Geralt speaks before her.

“We just left,” Geralt says.

“And we can turn back around,” Visenya interjects, looking at Geralt with a stony expression; lips in a firm line and eyes daring him to contradict her. She clutches the child closer to her, not willing to let them go just yet. They need to be safe and back home, and Visenya needs to see it with her own eyes. Otherwise, her consciousness will never be sated. And Geralt gleans this, causing a sigh to leave his lips, not bothering to start an argument he knows he wouldn’t win. 

“We can,” he concedes, voice lacking any form of enthusiasm or conviction in his words.

“Excellent.” Visenya returns her attention to the woman. “Since his injuries are the most delicate, your husband can ride on Roach, and you can ride with him. I can hold your son, but would your two other children be okay to walk? I’m not sure they’d fit on Roach." 

"They won’t. We should camp here for the day until he’s conscious and well enough to ride,” Geralt says. Visenya nods and looks at the woman for confirmation, who nods as well. 

“In that case, I will get Roach,” Visenya says. She begins to adjust the boy in her lap to give him back to his mother, but she stands from the ground. 

“I’ll come with you,” she says. Visenya nods, standing from the ground as well. She walks around Aldon, to stand beside Geralt. She gestures with her chin down at the child. Geralt opens his arms, reluctantly. She places the boy in his arms, and turns, dusting off any dirt that clings to her armor. Visenya nods at her and the two of them exit the clearing. 

The air around them is quiet. They neither speak nor acknowledge each other. Occasionally Visenya glances at her out of the corner of her eyes, and she catches the woman doing the same thing. It’s almost like two wolves dancing around each other, trying to figure out how to approach the other. It isn’t hostile, neither of them having any obvious tension. It’s just….silent. 

The woods are as gloomy as before; a cold chill sweeping through the air with dead trees and crunching leaves in shades of brown coloring their world. Yet everything somehow feels lighter, less dull, and grey. Visenya feels weightless, the adrenaline from the battle still lingering in her veins and the rush from saving innocent lives giving a small skip in her step. 

“I am Amaria,” the woman – Amaria says, making the first move. Visenya nods, continuing to look straight ahead. 

“I am Amaria,” the woman, Amaria, says. Her voice is louder than she’s heard it, yet the only other times she spoke was during great distress. There’s a melodic tone to it, each word slightly flowing together like the lyrics of a song. Visenya nods her head, staring straight ahead. 

“Visenya.” Leaves crunch under her boots, matching the pace of her heart, and the distant song that lingers in the back of her mind. It’s been too long since she’s heard music - and not just the drunken yodeling of tavern goers. She misses music and singing that are enjoyable to listen to. She misses the small tunes and fumbling lyrics that Jaskier always sang throughout the days. Everything is too silent now, and she finds herself trying to fill the silence the way he did. 

“That’s a beautiful name,” Amaria remarks, stepping over an overly large root. Visenya smiles, glancing over at her. She’s only the second person to call her Visenya. It’s relieving…finally able to take ownership of her own name once again. 

“Thank you, it’s a family name.” Amaria nods, falling silent once more, and unlike moments prior, this silence is not an easy one. Nerves fill Visenya, the uncertainty of what to say - if she should say anything at all overwhelming. She mulls over it for another moment, before just opening her mouth and hoping to not offend. 

“What are your children named?” Visenya asks. 

“Rohir is my oldest at seven, he’s the one you helped. Then there’s Elana, she’s only four and my youngest is Vyron, he’s only two,” Amaria says, a wide smile appearing on her face as she thinks about her children. Visenya watches her with keen eyes, a pang of envy stabbing into her, a piece of her longing to know the feeling of having a family that’s all your own. 

“They’re beautiful,” Visenya says, tightly nodding her head. She drums her fingers against the side of her leg. 

“Do you have any?” Amaria asks. She’s seemingly unaware or unconcerned by the awkward air that surrounds Visenya. But it’s nothing new, she’s never been the best with people. Constantly being around such loud people like Jaskier, or quiet and reclusive people like Geralt, she never notices. But now, walking in the forest alone with Amaria, she can’t help but notice how extremely difficult something as simple as conversation is. 

“No,” Visenya says, crouching to avoid smacking into a low hanging group of branches. Amaria nods, and then sighs. Her face scrunches into discomfort; pursuing her lips with eyes that are narrowed slightly. 

“Sorry, I should not have asked. I’m sure Witcher mutations make conceiving a child near impossible,” she says, her voice sympathetic and apologetic. Absentmindedly Visenya nods, only a moment later, fully processing the words. 

“Wait what?” Visenya stops in her tracks, turning to face Amaria. Her mouth is agape and eyes wide, ashen brows furrow in confusion with lines on her forehead. She continues a few steps before realizing Visenya is no longer walking with her. She stops as well, turning around and facing Visenya.

“You and the Witcher. Aren’t you two…” Amaria trails off. Visenya’s cheeks are bombarded with heat that makes her skin bright red. There’s a funny feeling in her stomach, tingles rushing up her spine. The thought of her and Geralt together isn’t unpleasant, and that’s the worst part. She almost enjoys the idea. But she quickly sweeps that away, her and Geralt having children would be disastrous, not that he probably could. 

“Geralt and I are not…together,” Visenya says, tone more frantic than she intended. 

“Oh, I just thought maybe…”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Visenya says, the words harsher than she intended for it to be. She releases a sigh of frustration, watching Amaria jump, slowly taking one step back from Visenya. Quickly, she crumbles back into the scared rabbit she was when Visenya first saw her. The familiar look in her eyes quickly snaps Visenya out of her frustration. Guild replaces her bubbling temper, immediately dousing out any annoyance in her voice. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so harsh,” Visenya says. Amaria nods, frown curling into a small smile. “Please, forgive me.”

“You are forgiven. I should not have made such assumptions,” Amaria says. She steps closer towards Visenya, a non-verbal sign that she doesn’t hold any fear for her. Visenya smiles at her, and the two of them continue walking once more. Silence cloaking them in its aura for the rest of their walk, neither speaking even upon reaching Roach and bringing his back to Geralt and her family. 


End file.
